i 


King  Lears  Wife 


^y  Gordon  Bottomle-^ 


I 


i 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


KING   LEARS  WIFE 
AND  OTHER  PLAYS 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

GRUACH  AND  BRITAIN'S  DAUGHTER. 
A  VISION  OF  GIORGIONE. 

And  in  preparation 
SELECTED  POEMS,  1894-1914. 


KING  •  LEAR'S  •  WIFE 
THE-CRIER-BY-NIGHT 
THE-RIDING-TO-LITH- 
END^MIDSUMMER-EVE 
LAODICE-AND-DANAE 
PLAYS  •  BY  •  GORDON 
BOTTOMLEY 


BOSTON 
SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


"REMEMBER  THE 
LIFE  OF  THESE 
THINGS  CONSISTS 
IN  ACTION." 

JOHN  marston:  1606. 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

The  plays  here  collected  were  orig-inally  published 
separately  at  various  dates  during-  the  past  eighteen 
years,  and  are  now  brought  together  for  the  first  time. 
The  details  of  the  previous  issues,  now  for  the  most 
part  out  o(  print,  are  appended. 

I.  The  Crier  by  Night.     (1900.)    Published  by  the 

Unicorn  Press,   London,    1902.    32  pp.    Quarto, 
boards.    500  copies. 

II.  Midsummer    Eve.     (1901-2.)    Printed    and    pub- 

lished at  the  Pear  Tree  Press,  South  Harting, 
near  Petersfield,  1905,  with  decorations  by  James 
Guthrie,  iv  +  36  pp.  Large  post  8vo,  boards. 
120  copies. 
in.  Laodice  AND  D.VNAii.  (1906.)  Printed  for  private 
circulation,  1909.  iv  +  26  pp.  Royal  8vo,  wrap- 
pers.   150  copies. 

IV.  The  Riding  to  Lithend.  (1907.)  Printed  and 
published  at  the  Pear  Tree  Press,  Flansham  near 
Bognor,  1909,  with  decorations  byjames  Guthrie. 
vi  +  40  pp.  Foolscap  4to,  boards.  120  copies  (20 
of  which  had  an  extra  plate  and  were  hand- 
coloured.) 

V.  King    Lear's    Wife.      (1911-13.)     Published    in 

"Georgian  Poetry,  1913-1915,"  pp.  i  1047.  The 
Poetry  Bookshop,  London,  1915- 
The  Crier  by  Night,  The  Riding  to  Lithend,  and 
Laodice  and  Danae  have  been  reprinted  in  the 
United  States  of  America,  the  first  in  1909,  the 
second  in  two  separate  forms  in  1910,  the  third 
in  1916 


VII 


TO  T.  STURGE  MOORE 

'T^ H E  years  covte  on,  the  years  go  by, 
J-      A  nd  in  my  Nojihern  valley  /, 
Withdra7vn  from  life,  watch  life  go  by. 
But  I  have  formed  within  viy  heaii 
A  state  that  does  not  thus  depart, 
Richer  than  life,  greater  than  being, 
Truer  in  feeling  and  in  seeing 
Than  out7vard  turbulence  can  kno7v ; 
Where  time  is  still,  like  a  large,  sloiv 
And  lofty  bird  that  moves  her  7vings 
hi  far,  invisible  flutterings 
To  gaze  on  every  part  of  space 
Yet  poise  for  ever  in  one  place; 
Where  line  and  sound,  colour  and  phrase 
Rebuild  in  clear,  essential  Tvays 
The  powers  behitid  the  veil  of  sense  ; 
While  tragic  things  are  made  intense 
By  passion  brooding  on  old  dread, 
Till  a  faint  light  of  beatity  shed 
From  night-enfolded  agony 
She7vs  in  the  ways  men  fail  and  die 
The  deeps  whose  l'no7vlcdge  never  cloys 
But,  striking  inward  7vithout  voice. 
Stirs  me  to  tremble  and  rejoice. 

For  twenty  years  and  more  than  twenty 
I  have  found  my  riches  and  my  plenty 
In  poets  dead  and  poets  living, 
Painters  and  music-men,  all  giving. 
By  life  shut  in  creative  deeds, 
Live  force  and  insight  to  my  needs ; 
And  long  before  I  came  to  stand 
And  hear  your  voice  and  touch  your  hand 
In  that  great  treasure-house  ne7v-known. 
Where  in  their  tower  above  the  Town 
The  masters  o/"The  Dial  sit, 
I  loved  in  every  word  of  it 


Vour  finely  tempered  verse  that  told  me 
Of  patient  power^  and  still  can  hold  me 
By  its  anthetitic  divinafioti 
Of  the  right  kno7vh'dge  of  creation, 
Its  grave,  still  beauty  brought  tu  day 
Tissue  by  tis^ie  in  nature's  7t>ay, 
Pethl  by  petal  sure  to  shew 
/>Jiagijiation\f  quiet  gloiv 
That  burns  intenseliest  at  the  core. 
And  through  that  twenty  years  and  more 
I  hax<e  been  envious  of  your  reach 
In  spealcing  form  and  plastic  speech, 
Votir  double  energy  of  hand 
That  puts  two  arts  at  your  command 
While  I  must  be  content  7i<ith  one 
And  feel  true  life  but  half  begun  ; 
So  that  by  g-raver  as  by  pen 
You  can  create  earth,  stars,  and  men, 
And  prove  yourself  by  more  than  rime 
A  prince  of  poets  in  our  time. 

For  these  delights,  and  the  delight 

Of  converse  in  a  Surrey  night 

After  the  deep  sound  had  lapsed  by 

Of  ocean-haunted  poetry. 

For  counsel  a7ui  another  ::est 

Added  to  beauty's  life-lotig  quest 

/,  in  acknowledgment,  would  bring 

The  homage  of  an  offering; 

And,  being  too  poor  to  reach  the  height 

Of  my  conception  or  requite 

Your  greater  giving  equally, 

I  search  in  my  capacity 

And,  by  my  self-appointed  trade. 

Find  something  I  myself  have  made, 

That  here  I  offer.    Let  it  be 

A  token  betwixt  you  and  me 

Of  admiration  and  loyalty. 

February  29th,  1916. 


PERSONS: 

Lear,  King  of  Britain. 

Hygd,  his  Oueen. 

GoNERiL,  daughter  to  Lear  and  Hygd. 

CoRDEiL,  daughter  to  Lear  and  Hygd. 

GoRMFLAiTH,  waiting-woman  to  Hygd. 

Merryn,  waiting-woman  to  Hygd. 

A  Physician. 

Two  Elderly  Women. 


KING  LEAR'S  WIFE 

The  scene  is  a  bedchamber  in  a  one-storied  house. 
The  ivalls  consist  of  a  few  courses  of  huge  ir- 
regular boulders  roughly  squared  and  filled 
together;  a  thatched  roof  rises  steeply  from  the 
back  wall.  In  the  centre  of  the  back  wall  is  a 
doorway  opening  on  a  garden  and  covered  by 
two  leather  curtains;  the  chamber  is  partially 
hung  with  similar  hangings  stitched  with 
bright  ivools.  There  is  a  small  windoiv  on  each 
side  of  this  door. 

Toward  the  front  a  bed  stands  with  its  head 
against  the  right  imill;  it  has  thin  leather 
curtains  hung  by  thongs  and  drawn  back. 
Farther  forward  a  rich  robe  and  a  crown  hang 
on  a  peg  in  the  same  vjall.  There  is  a  second 
door  beyond  the  bed,  and  beliveen  this  and  the 
bed's  head  stands  a  small  table  ivith  a  bronze 
lamp  and  a  bronze  cup  on  it.  Queen  Hygd, 
an  emaciated  woman,  is  asleep  in  the  bed;  her 
plenteous  black  hair,  veined  with  silver,  spreads 
over  the  pillow.  Her  waiting-woman,  Merryn, 
middle-aged  and  hard-featured,  sits  watching 
her  in  a  chair  on  the  farther  side  of  the  bed. 
The  light  of  early  morning  fills  the  room. 

Merryn. 

MANY,  many  must  die  who  long  to  live, 
Yet  this  one  cannot  die  who  longs  to  die: 
Even  her  sleep,  come  now  at  last,  thwarts  death, 

5 


KING      LEAR'S      WIFE 

Although  sleep  lures  us  all  half  way  to  death.  .  .  . 

I  could  not  sit  beside  her  every  night 

If  I  believed  that  I  might  suffer  so: 

I  am  sure  I  am  not  made  to  be  diseased, 

I  feel  there  is  no  malady  can  touch  me — 

Save  the  red  cancer,  growing  where  it  will. 

Taking  her  beads  from  her  girdle,   she 
kneels  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
O  sweet  Saint  Cleer,  and  sweet  Saint  Elid  too, 
Shield  me  from  rootingcancers  and  from  madness : 
Shield  me  from  sudden  death,  worse  than  two 

death-beds; 
Let  me  not  lie  like  this  unwanted  queen. 
Yet  let  my  time  come  not  ere  I  am  ready — 
Grant  space  enow  to  relish  the  watchers'  tears 
And  give  my  clothes  away  and  calm  my  features 
And  streek  my  limbs  according  to  my  will. 
Not  the  hard  will  of  fumbling  corpse-washers. 
She  prays  silently. 

King  Lear,  a  great,  golden-bearded  man 
in  the  full  maturity  of  life,  enters 
abruptly  by  the  door  beyond  the  bed, 
followed  by  the  Physician. 

Lear. 

Why  are  you  here?  Are  you  here  for  ever? 
Where  is  the  young  Scotswoman?  Where  is  she? 

Merryn. 

O,  Sire,  move  softly;  the  Queen  sleeps  at  last. 

Lear,  continuing  in  an  undertone. 
Where  is   the   young   Scotswoman?    Where   is 
Gormflaith? 

6 


KING      LEA    R'S      WIFE 

It  is  her  watch.  ...    I  know;  I  have  marked  your 

hours. 
Did  the  Queen  send  her  away?  Did  the  Queen 
Bid  you  slay  near  her  in  lier  hate  of  Gorinflaith? 
You  work  upon  her  yeasting"  brain  to  think 
That  slie  's  not  safe  except  when  you  crouch  near 

her 
To   spy    with    your    dropt    eyes   and    soundless 

presence. 

Merryn. 

Sire,  midnii^ht  should  have  ended  Gormflaith's 

watch, 
But  GormHaith  had  another  kind  of  will 
And  ended  at  a  godlier  hour  by  slumber, 
A  letter  in  her  hand,  the  night-lamp  out. 
She  loitered  in  the  hall  when  she  should  sleep. 
My  duty  has  two  hours  ere  she  returns. 

Lear. 

The  Queen  should  have  young  women  about  her 

bed, 
Fresh  cooi-breathed  women  to  lie  down  at  her  side 
And  plenish  her  with  vigour;  for  sick  or  wasted 

women 
Can  draw  a  virtue  from  such  abounding  presence, 
When  night  makes  life  unwary  and  looses  the 

strings  of  being. 
Even  by  the  breath,  and  most  of  all  by  sleep. 
Her  slumber  was  then  no  fault:  go  you  and  find 

her. 

Physician. 

It  is  not  strange  that  a  bought  watcher  drowses; 

What  is  most  strange  is  that  the  Queen  sleeps 


KING      LEA    RS      WIFE 

Who  would  not  sleep  for  all  my  draughts  of  sleep 
In  the  last  days.  When  did  this  change  appear? 

Merryn. 

We  shall  not  know — it  came  while  Gormflaith 

nodded. 
When  I  awoke  her  and  she  saw  the  Oueen 
Slie  could  not  speak  for  fear: 
When  the  rekindling  lamp  showed  certainly 
The  bed-clothes  stirring  about  our  lady's  neck, 
She  knew  there  was  no  death,  she  breathed,  she 

said 
She  had  not  slept  until  her  mistress  slept 
And  lulled  her;  but  I  asked  her  how  her  mistress 
Slept,  and  her  utterance  faded. 
She  should  be  blamed  with  rods,  as  I  was  blamed 
For  slumber,  after  a  day  and  a  night  of  watching, 
By  the  Queen's  child-bed,  twenty  years  ago. 

Lear. 

She  does  what  she  must  do:  let  her  alone. 
I  know  her  watch  is  now:  get  gone  and  send  her. 
Merryn  goes  out  by  the  door  beyond  the 
bed. 
Is  it  a  portent  now  to  sleep  at  night? 
What  change  is  here?  What  see  you  in  the  Queen? 
Can  you  discern  how  this  disease  will  end? 

Physician. 

Surmise  might  spring  and  healing  follow  yet, 
If  I  could  find  a  trouble  that  could  heal ; 
But  these  strong  inward  painsthat  keep  herebbing 
Have  not  their  source  in  perishing  flesh. 
I  have  seen  women  creep  into  their  beds 
And  sink  with  this  blind  pain  because  they  nursed 

8 


KING      LEAR'S      WIFE 

Some  bitterness  or  Ijurdeii  in  the  niiin.! 

That  drew  the  life,  sucklin^^s  too  long  at  breast. 

Do  you  know  such  a  cause  in  this  poor  hidy? 

Lkar. 

There  is  no  cause.  How  should  there  be  a  cause? 

Physician. 

We  cannot  die  wholly  against  our  wills; 

And  in  the  texture  of  women  I  have  found 

Harder  determination  than  in  men: 

The  body  grows  impatient  of  enduring, 

The  harried  mind  is  from  the  the  body  estranged, 

And  we  consent  to  go:  by  the  Queen's  touch, 

The  way  she  moves — or  does  not  move — in  bed, 

The  eyes  so  cold  and  keen  in  her  white  mask, 

I  know  she  has  consented. 

The  snarling  look  of  a  mute  wounded  hawk. 

That  would  be  let  alone,  is  always  hers — 

Yet  she  was  sorely  tender:  it  may  be 

Some  wound  in  her  affection  will  not  heal. 

We  should  be  careful — the  mind  can  so  be  hurt 

That  nought  can  make  it  be  unhurt  again. 

Where,  then,  did  her  affection  most  persist? 

Lear. 

Old  bone-patcher,  old  digger  in  men's  flesh, 
Doctors  are  ever  itching  to  be  priests. 
Meddling  in  conduct,  natures,  life's  privacies. 
We  have  been  coupled  now  for  twenty  years, 
And  she  has  never  turned  from  me  an  hour — 
She  knows  a  woman's  duty  and  a  queen's: 
Whose,  then,  can  her  affection  be  but  mine? 
How  can  I  hurt  her — she  is  still  my  queen? 
If  her  strong  inward  pain  is  a  real  pain 
Find  me  some  certain  drug  to  medicine  it: 


KING      LEAR'S      WIFE 

When  common  beings  have  decayed  past  help, 
There  must  be  still  some  drug  for  a  king  to  use; 
For  nothing  ought  to  be  denied  to  kings. 

Physician. 

For  the  mere  anguish  there  is  such  a  potion. 

The  gum  of  warpy  juniper  shoots  is  seethed 

With  the  torn  marrow  of  an  adder's  spine; 

An  unflawed  emerald  is  pashed  to  dust 

And    mingled    there;    that   broth    must   cool    in 

moonlight. 
I  have  indeed  attempted  this  already, 
But  the  poor  emeralds  I  could  extort 
From  wry-mouthed  earls'  women  had  no  force. 
In  two  more  dawns  it  will  be  late  for  potions.  .  .  . 
There  are  not  many  emeralds  in  Britain, 
And  there  is  none  for  vividness  and  strength 
Like  the  great  stone  that  hangs  upon  your  breast: 
If  you  will  waste  it  for  her  she  shall  be  holpen. 

Lear,  loith  rising  voice. 

Shatter  my  emerald?  My  emerald?  My  emerald? 
A  High  King  of  Eire  gave  it  to  his  daughter 
Who  mothered  generations  of  us,  the  kings  of 

Britain ; 
It  has  a  spiritual  influence;  its  heart 
Burns  when   it  sees  the  sun.   .   .   .  Shatter  my 

emerald  ! 
Only  the  fungused  brain  and  carious  mouth 
Of  senile  things  could  shape  such  thought.   .  .  . 
My  emerald ! 

Hygd  stirs  uneasily  in  her  sleep. 

Physician. 

Speak  lower,  low ;  for  your  good  fame,  speak  low — 

If  she  should  waken  thus.  .  .  . 

lO 


KING      L    E   A    R'S      WIFE 

Lkar.  There  is  no  wise  man 

Believes  that  medicine  is  in  a  jewel. 

It  is  enough  that  you  have  failed  with  one. 

vSeek  you  a  common  stone.    I'll  not  do  it. 

Let  her  eat  heartily:  she  is  spent  with  fasting. 

Let  her  stand  up  and  walk:  she  is  so  still 

Her  blood  can  never  nourish  her.  Come  away. 

Physician. 

I  must  not  leave  her  ere  the  woman  comes — 

Or  will  some  other  woman.   .  .  . 

Lear.  No,  no,  no,  no; 

The  Queen  is  not  herself;    she  speaks    without 

sense; 
Only  Merryn  and  Gormflaith  understand. 
She  is  better  quiet.   Come.  .   .  . 

He  urges  the  Physician  roughly  away  by 
the  shoulder. 

My  emerald! 
He  follows  the  Physician  out  by  the  door 

at  the  back. 
Queen   Hygd  awakes  at  his  last  noisy 
words  as  he  disappears. 

Hygd. 

I  have  not  slept;  I  did  but  close  mine  eyes 
A  little  while — a  little  while  forgetting.   .   .   . 
Where   are   you,    Merryn?  .  .  .    Ah,    it   is    not 

Merryn.   .  .   . 
Bring  me  the  cup  of  whey,  woman;  I  thirst.  .  .  . 
Will  you  speak  to  me  if  I  say  your  name? 
Will  you  not  listen,  Gormflaith?  .   .   .  Can  you 

hear? 
I  am  very  thirsty — let  me  drink.  .   .   . 

II 


KING      LEAR'S      WIFE 

Ah,  wicked  woman,  why  did  I  speak  to  you? 

I  will  not  be  your  suppliant  again.  .   .   . 

Where  are  you?   O,  where  are  you?  .   .  .  Where 
are  you? 

SJie  tries  to  raise  herself  to  look  about  the 

room,  but  sinks  back  helplessly. 
The  curtains  of  the  door  at  the  back  are 
parted,  and  Goneril  appears  in 
hunting  dress,- — her  kirtle  caug/it  up 
in  her  girdle,  a  light  spear  over  her 
shoulder — stands  there  a  moment, 
then  enters  noiselessly  and  approaches 
the  bed.  She  is  a  girl  just  turning  to 
womanhood,  proud  in  her  poise,  sivift 
and  cold,  an  almost  gleaming  pre- 
sence, a  virgin  huntress. 

Goneril. 

Mother,  were  you  calling? 

Have  I  awakened  you? 

They  said  that  you  were  sleeping. 

Why  are  you  left  alone,  mother,  my  dear  one? 

Hygd. 

Who  are  you?   No,  no,  no!    Stand  farther  off! 
You  pulse  and    glow;    you  are  too  vital;    your 

presence  hurts.  .   .   . 
Freshness  of  hill-swards,  wind  and  trodden  ling, 
I  should  have  known  that  Goneril  stands  here. 
It  is  yet  dawn,  but  you  have  been  afoot 
Afar  and  long:  where  could  you  climb  so  soon? 

Goneril. 

Dearest,  I  am  an  evil  daughter  to  you: 

I  never  thought  of  you — O,  never  once — 

12 


KING      LEAR'S     WIFE 

Until  I  heard  a  moor-bird  cry  like  you. 

I  am  wicked,  rapt  in  joys  of  breath  and  life, 

And  I  must  force  myself  to  think  of  you. 

I  leave  you  to  caretakers'  cold  g-cntleness; 

But  O,  I  did  not  think  that  they  dare  leave  you. 

What  woman  should  be  here? 

Hygd.  I  have  forgot.  .  .  . 

I  know  not.  .   .  .  She  will  be  about  some  duty. 
I   do   not   matter:    my  time    is  done  .  .   .   nigh 

done  .   .  . 
Bought  hands  can  well  prepare  me  for  a  grave, 
And  all  the  generations  must  serve  youth. 
My  girls  shall  live  untroubled  while  they  may, 
And  learn  happiness  once  while  yet  blind  men 
Have  injured  not  their  freedom; 
For  women  are  not  meant  for  happiness. 
Where  have  you  been,  my  falcon? 

GONERIL. 

I  dreamt  that  I  was  swimming,  shoulder  up, 
And  drave  the  bed-clothes  spreading  to  the  floor: 
Coldness  awoke  me ;  through  the  waning  darkness 
I  heard  far  hounds  give  shivering  aery  tongue, 
Remote,  withdrawing,  suddenly  faint  and  ndar; 
I  leapt  and  saw  a  pack  of  stretching  weasels 
Hunt  a  pale  coney  in  a  soundless  rush, 
Their  elfin  and  thin  yelping  pierced  my  heart 
As  with  an  unseen  beauty  long  awaited ; 
Wolf-skin  and  cloak  I  buckled  over  this  night- 
gear, 
And  took  my  honoured  spear  from  my  bed-side 
Where  none  but  I  may  touch  its  purity. 
And  sped  as  lightly  down  the  dewy  bank 
As  any  mothy  owl  that  hunts  quick  mice. 

13 


KING      LEAR'S      WIFE 

They  went  crying,  crying,  but  I  lost  them 
Before  I  stept,  with  the  first  tips  of  Hght, 
On  Raven  Crag  near  by  the  Druid  Stones ; 
So  I  paused  there  and,  stooping,  pressed  my  hand 
Against  the  stony  bed  of  the  clear  stream  ; 
Then  entered  I  the  circle  and  raised  up 
My  shining  hand  in  cold  stern  adoration 
Even  as  the  first  great  gleam  went  up  the  sky. 

Hygd. 

Ay,  you  do  well  to  worship  on  that  height: 
Life  is  free  to  the  quick  up  in  the  wind. 
And  the  wind  bares  you  for  a  god's  descent — 
For  wind  is  a  spirit  immediate  and  aged. 
And  you  do  well  to  worship  harsh  men-gods, 
God  Wind  and  Those  who  built  his  Stones  with 

him : 
All  gods  are  cruel,  bitter,  and  to  be  bribed. 
But  women-gods  are  mean  and  cunning  as  well. 
That  fierce  old  virgin,  Cornish  Merryn,  prays 
To  a  young  woman,  yes  and  even  a  virgin — 
The  poorest  kind  of  woman — and  she  says 
That  is  to  be  a  Christian:  avoid  then 
Her  worship  most,  for  men  hate  such  denials, 
And  any  woman  scorns  her  unwed  daughter. 
Where  sped  you  from  that  height?    Did  Regan 

join  you  there? 

GONERIL. 

Does  Regan  worship  anywhere  at  dawn? 
The  sweaty  half-clad  cook-maids  render  lard 
Out  in  the  scullery,  after  pig-killing. 
And  Regan  sidles  among  their  greasy  skirts, 
Smeary  and  hot  as  they,  for  craps  to  suck. 
I  lost  my  thoughts  before  the  giant  Stones  .  .  . 

14 


KING      LEAR'S      WIFE 

And  when  anew  the  earth  assembled  round  me 
I  swung-  out  on  the  heath  and  woke  a  hare 
And  speared  it  at  a  cast  and  shouldered  it, 
Startled  another  drinking  at  a  tarn 
And  speared  it  ere  it  leapt;  so  steady  and  clear 
Had  the  god  in  his  fastness  made  my  mind. 
Then,  as  I  took  those  dead  things  in  my  hands, 
I  felt  shame  light  my  face  from  deep  within. 
And  loathing  and  contempt  shake  in  my  bowels, 
That   such  unclean  coarse    blows  from  me  had 

issued 
To  crush  delicate  things  to  bloody  mash 
And  blemish  their  fur  when  I  would  only  kill. 
My  gladness  left  me;  I  careered  no  more 
Upon  the  morning;  I  went  down  from  there 
With  empty  hands: 

But  under  the  first  trees  and  without  thought 
I  stole  on  conies  at  play  and  stooped  at  one; 
I  hunted  it,  I  caught  it  up  to  me 
As  I  outsprang  it,  and  with  this  thin  knife 
Pierced  it  from  eye  to  eye;  and  it  was  dead, 
Untorn,  unsullied,  and  with  flawless  fur. 
Then  my  untroubled  mind  came  back  to  me. 

Hygd. 

Leap  down  the  glades  with  a  fawn's  ignorance; 

Live  you  your  fill  of  a  harsh  purity; 

Be  wild  and  calm  and  lonely  while  you  may. 

These  are  your  nature's  joys,  and  it  is  human 

Only  to  recognize  our  natures'  joys 

When  we  are  losing  them  for  ever. 

GoNERiL.  But  why 

Do  you  say  this  to  me  with  a  sore  heart? 

You  arc  a  queen,  and  speak  from  the  top  of  life, 

•5 


KING      LEA   R'S      WIFE 

And  when  you  choose  to  wish  for  others'  joys 
Those  others  must  have  woe. 

Hygd. 

The  hour  comes  for  you  to  turn  to  a  man 
And  give  yourself  with  the  high  heart  of  youth 
More  lavishly  than  a  queen  gives  anything. 
But  when  a  woman  gives  herself 
She  must  give  herself  for  ever  and  have  faith; 
For  woman  is  a  thing  of  a  season  of  years. 
She  is  an  early  fruit  that  will  not  keep, 
vShe  can  be  drained  and  as  a  husk  survive 
To  hope  for  reverence  for  what  has  been ; 
While  man  renews  himself  into  old  age, 
And  gives  himself  according  to  his  need, 
And  women  more  unborn  than  his  next  child 
May  take  him  yet  with  youth 
And  lose  him  with  their  potence. 

GOKERIL. 

But  women  need  not  wed  these  men. 

Hygd. 

We  are  good  human  currency,  like  gold, 
For  men  to  pass  among  them  when  they  choose. 
A  chiliVs  hands  beat  on  the  outside  of  the 
door  beyond  the  bed. 

Cordeil's  Voice,  a  child's  voice,  outside. 
Father.  .  .  .  Father.  .  .  .  Feather.  .  .  .  Are  you 

here? 
Merryn,  ugly  Merryn,  let  me  in.  .   .  . 
I  know  my  father  is  here.  ...   I  want  him.  .  .  . 

Now.  .  .  . 
Mother,  chide  Merryn,  she  is  old  and  slow.  .  .  . 

i6 


KING      LEAR'S      WIFE 

Hygd,  softly. 

My  little  curse.    Send  her  away — away.  .  .  . 

CoRDKiL's  Voice. 

Father.   .   .   .  O,  father,  father.   ...   I  want  my 
father. 

GoNERTL,  openitig  the  door  a  little  way. 

Hush;  hush — you  hurt  your  mother  with  your 

voice. 
You  cannot  come  in,  Cordeil ;  you  must  go  away : 
Your  father  is  not  here.  .  .  . 

Cordeil's  Voice.  He  must  be  here: 

He  is  not  in  his  chamber  or  the  hall, 
He  is  not  in  the  stable  or  with  Gormflaith: 
He  promised  I  should  ride  with  him  at  dawn 
And  sit  before  his  saddle  and  hold  his  hawk, 
And  ride  with  him  and  ride  to  the  heron-marsh; 
He  said  that  he  would  give  me  the  first  heron, 
And  hang  the  longest  feathers  in  my  hair. 

Goneril. 

Then  you  must  haste  to  find  him  ; 

He  may  be  riding  now.  ... 

Cordeil's  Voice. 

But  Gerda  said  she  saw  him  enter  here. 

Goneril. 

Indeed,  he  is  not  here.  .  .  . 

Cordeil's  Voice.  Let  me  look.  .  .  . 

Goneril. 

You  are  too  noisy.   Must  I  make  you  go'i 

17  c 


KING      LEA    RS      WIFE 

Cordeil's  Voice. 

Mother,  Goneril  is  unkind  to  me. 

Hygd,  raising  herself  in  bed  excitedly ,  and  speak- 
ing so  vehemently  that  her  utterance  strangles 
itself. 
Go,  go,  thou  evil  child,  thou  ill-comer. 

Goneril,  with  a  sudden  strong  move- 
7nent,  shuts  the  resisting  door  and 
holds  it  rigidly.  The  little  hands  heat 
on  it  madly  for  a  moment,  then  the 
child^s  voice  is  heard  in  a  retreating 
wail. 

Goneril. 

Though  she  is  wilful,  obeying  only  the  King, 

She  is  a  very  little  child,  mother. 

To  be  so  bitterly  thought  of. 

Hygd. 

Because  a  woman  gives  herself  for  ever 
Cordeil  the  useless  had  to  be  conceived 
(Like  an  after-thought  that  deceives  nobody) 
To  keep  her  father  from  another  woman. 
And  I  lie  here. 

Goneril,  after  a  silence. 
Hard  and  unjust  my  father  has  been  to  me; 
Yet  that  has  knitted  up  within  my  mind 
A  love  of  coldness  and  a  love  of  him 
Who  makes  me  firm,  wary,  swift  and  secret. 
Until  I  feel  if  I  become  a  mother 
I  shall  at  need  be  cruel  to  my  children, 
And  ever  cold,  to  string  their  natures  harder 
And  make  them  able  to  endure  men's  deeds; 
But  now  I  wonder  if  injustice 

i8 


KING      LEAR'S      WIFE 

Keeps  house  with  baseness,  taught  by  kinship — 
I  never  thought  a  king  could  be  untrue, 
I  never  thought  my  father  was  unclean.  .  .  . 

0  mother,  mother,  what  is  it?   Is  this  dying? 

Hygd. 

1  think  I  am  only  faint.  .  .  . 
Give  me  the  cup  of  whey.  .  .  . 

GoNERiL  takes  the  cup  and,  supporting 
Hygd,  lets  her  drink. 

GONERIL. 

There  is  too  little  here.    When  was  it  made? 

Hygd. 

Yester-eve.  .  .  .    Yester-morn.  .  .  . 

GoNERiL.  Unhappy  mother, 

You  have  no  daughter  to  take  thought  for  you — 
No  servant's  love  to  shame  a  daughter  with, 
Though  I  am  shamed — you  must  have  other  food. 
Straightway  I  bring  you  meat.  .  .  . 

Hygd.  It  is  no  use.  .  .  . 

Plenish  the  cup  for  me.  .  .  .  Not  now,  not  now, 

But  in  a  while;  for  I  am  heavy  now.  .  .  . 

Old  Wynoc's  potions  loiter  in  my  veins, 

And  tides  of  heaviness  pour  over  me 

Each  time  I  wake  and  think.    I  could  sleep  now. 

GONERIL. 

Then  I  shall  lull  you,  as  you  once  lulled  me. 

Seating  herself  on  the  bed,  she  sings. 
The  owlets  in  roof-holes 
Can  sing  for  themselves; 
The  smallest  brown  squirrel 
Both  scampers  and  delves; 
19 


KING      LEAR'S      WIFE 

But  a  baby  does  nothing — 

She  never  knows  how — 

She  must  hark  to  her  mother 

Who  sings  to  her  now. 

Sleep  then,  ladykin,  peeping  so; 

Hide  your  bandies  and  ley  lei  lo. 

She  bends  over  Hygd  and  kisses  her;  they 

laugh  softly  together. 
Lear  parts  the  curtains  of  the  door  at  the 

back,  stands  there  a  moment^  then 

goes  away  noiselessly. 
The  lish  baby  otter 
Is  sleeky  and  streaming, 
With  catching  bright  fishes, 
Ere  babies  learn  dreaming; 
But  no  wet  little  otter 
Is  ever  so  warm 
As  the  fleecy-wrapt  baby 
'Twixt  me  and  my  arm. 
Sleep  big  mousie.  .  .  . 

Hygd,  suddenly  irritable. 

Be  quiet.  ...     I  cannot  bear  it. 

She  turns  her  head  away  from  Goneril 
and  closes  her  eyes. 

As  Goneril  watches  her  in  silence^ 
GoRMFLAiTH  enters  by  the  door  be- 
yond the  bed.  She  is  young  and  tall 
and  fresh-coloured ;  her  red  hair  coils 
and  crisps  close  to  her  little  head, 
showing  its  shape.  Her  movements 
are  soft  and  unhurried;  her  manner 
is  quiet  and  ingratiating  and  a  little 
too  agreeable;  she  speaks  a  little  too 
gently. 

20 


KING      LEAR'S      WIFE 

GoNERiL,  meeting  her  near  the  door  and  speaking 

in  a  loiv  voice. 
Why  did  you  leave  the  Queen?  Where  have  you 

been? 
Why  have  you  so  neglected  this  grave  duty? 

GORMFLAITII. 

This  is  the  instant  of  my  duty,  Princess: 
From  midnight  until  now  was  Merryn's  watch. 
I  thought  to  lind  her  here:   is  she  not  here? 

H  VGD  turns  to  look  at  the  speakers;  then, 

turning  back,  closes  her  eyes  again 

and  lies  as  if  asleep. 

GONERIL. 

I  found  the  Queen  alone.    I  heard  her  cry  your 
name. 

GORMFLAITH. 

Your  anger  is  not  too  great,  Madam  ;  I  grieve 
That  one  so  old  as  Merryn  should  act  thus — 
So  old  and  trusted  and  favoured,  and  so  callous. 

GONERIL. 

The  Queen  has  had  no  food  since  yester-night. 

GORMFLAITH. 

Madam,  that  is  too  monstrous  to  conceive: 
I  will  seek  food — I  will  prepare  it  now. 

GONERIL. 

Stay  here:  and  know,  if  the  Queen  is  left  again, 
You  shall  be  beaten  with  two  rods  at  once. 

She  picks  up  the  cup  and  goes  out  by  the 
door  beyond  t/ie  bed. 

21 


KING      LEA    R'S      WIFE 

GoRMFLAiTH  tums  the  chair  a  little  away 
from  the  bed  so  that  she  can  watch  the 
far  door,  and^  seating  herself ^  draws 
a  letter  front  her  bosom. 

GoRMFLAiTH,  to  herself^  reading. 

"  Open  your  window  when  the  moon  is  dead, 

And  I  will  come  again. 

The  men  say  everywhere  that  you  are  faithless, 

The  women  say  your  face  is  a  false  face 

And  your  eyes  shifty  eyes.    Ah,  but  I  love  you, 

Gormflaith. 
Do  not  forget  your  window-latch  to-night, 
For  when  the  moon  is  dead  the  house  is  still." 

Lear  again  parts  the  door-curtains  at  the 
back^  and,  seeing  Gormflaith,  en- 
ters. At  the  first  slight  rustle  of  the 
curtains  Gormflaith  stealthily  slips 
the  letter  back  i7ito  her  bosom  before 
turning  gradually,  a  finger  to  her 
lips,  to  see  ivho  approaches  her. 

Lear,  leani^ig  over  the  side  of  her  chair. 
Lady,  what  do  you  read? 

Gormflaith.  I  read  a  letter,  Sire. 

Lear. 

A  letter — a  letter — what  read  you  in  a  letter? 

Gormflaith,  taking  another  letter  from  her  girdle. 
Your  words  to  me — my  lonely  joy  your  words.  .  .  . 
"  If  you  are  steady  and  true  as  your  gaze  " — 

22 


KING      LEAR'S      WIFE 

Lear,  tearing  the  letter  from  her,  crumpling  it, 
and  flinging  it  to  the  back  of  the  room. 

Pest! 
You  should  not  carry  a  king-'s  letters  about, 
Nor  hoard  a  kintr's  letters. 

GoRMFLAiTH.  No,  Sire. 

Lear. 

Must  the  King  also  stand  in  the  presence  now? 

GoRMFLAiTH,  rising. 

Pardon  my  troubled  mind;  you  have  taken  my 
letter  from  me. 

Lear  seats  himself  and  takes  Gorm- 
flaith's  hand. 

Gormflaith. 

Wait,  wait— I  might  be  seen.    The  Queen  may 
waken  yet. 

Stepping  lightly  to  the  bed,  she  noiselessly 
slips  the  curtain  on  that  side  as  far 
fonvard  as  it  tvill  come.  Then  she 
returns  to  Lear,  ivho  draws  her  to 
him  and  seats  her  on  his  knee. 

Lear. 

You  have  been  long  in  coming: 

Was  Merryn  long  in  finding  you? 

Gormflaith,  playing  with  Lear's  emerald. 

Did  Merryn.  .  .  . 
Has  Merryn  been.  .  .  .  She  loitered  long  before 

she  came. 
For    I    was   at    the   women's   bathing-place   ere 

dawn.  .  .  . 

2.^ 


KING      LEA    R'S      WIFE 

No  jewel  in  all  the  land  excites  me  and  enthralls 
Like  this  strong  source  of  light  that  lives  upon 
your  breast. 

Lear,  taking  the  j eivel-cJiain  from  his  neck  and 

slipping  it  over  Gormflaith's  head  7vhile  she 

sti/l  holds  the  emerald. 

Wear  it  within  your  breast  to  fill  the  gentle  place 

That  cherished  the  poor  letter  lately  torn  from  you. 

GORMFLAITH. 

Did  Merryn  at  your  bidding,  then,  forsake  her 
Oueen? 

Lear  nods. 

You  must  not,  ah,  you  must  not  do  these  master- 
ful things, 

Even  to  grasp  a  precious  meeting  for  us  two; 

For  the  reproach  and  chiding  are  so  hard  to  me, 

And  even  you  can  never  fight  the  silent  women 

In  hidden  league  against  me,  all  this  house  of 
women. 

Merryn  has  left  her  Queen  in  unwatched  lone- 
liness. 

And  yet  your  daughter  Princess  Goneril  has  said 

(With  lips  that  scarce  held  back  the  spittle  for  my 
face) 

That  if  the  Queen  is  left  again  I  shall  be  whipt. 

Lear. 

Children  speak  of  the  punishments  they  know. 
Her  back  is  now  not  half  so  white  as  yours. 
And  you  shall  write  your  will  upon  it  yet. 

Gormflaith. 

Ah,  no,  my  King,  my  faithful.  .   Ah,  no.  .  no  .  . 

24 


KING      LEA    R'S      WIFE 

The  Princess  Goneril  is  right;  she  judges  me: 
A  sinful  woman  cannot  steadily  gaze  reply 
To  the  cool,  bailling  looks  of  virgin  untried  force. 
She  stands  beside  that  crumbling  mother  in  lier 

hate, 
And,  though  we  know  so  well — she  and  I,  O  we 

know — 
That  she  could  love  no  mother  nor  partake  in 

anguish, 
Yet  she  is  flouted  when  the  King  forsakes  her 

dam. 
She  must  protect  her  very  llcsh,  her  tenderer  flesh, 
Although  she  cannot  wince;  she's  wild  in  her  cold 

brain, 
And  soon  I  must  be  made  to  pay  a  cruel  price 
For  this  one  gloomy  joy  in  my  uncherished  life. 
Envy  and  greed  are  watching  me  aloof 
(Yes,  now  none  of  the  women  will  walk  with  me). 
Longing  to  see  me  ruined,  but  she'll  do  it.  .  .  . 
It  is  a  lonely  thing  to  love  a  king.  .  .  . 

She  puts  her  cheek  gradually  closer  and 
closer  to  Lkar's  clieek  as  she  speaks: 
at  length  he  kisses  her  suddenly  and 
'vehemently^  as  if  he  ivoiild  grasp  her 
lips  7vith  his:  she  receives  it  passively, 
licr  head  thrown  back,  her  eyes  closed. 
Lear. 
Goldilocks,  when  the  crown  is  couching  in  your 

hair 
And    those   two    mingled    golds    brighten    each 

other's  wonder, 
You  shall  produce  a  son  from  flesh  unused — 
Virgin    I    chose   you    for    that,    first   crops   are 

strongest — 
A  tawny  fox  with  your  high-stepping  action, 

^5 


KING      LEARS      WIFE 

With  your  untiring  power  and  glittering  eyes, 
To  hold  my  lands  together  when  I  am  done, 
To  keep  my  lands  from  crumbling  into  mouthfuls 
For  the  short  jaws  of  my  three  mewling  vixens. 
Hatch  for  me  such  a  youngster  from  my  seed, 
And  I  and  he  shall  rein  my  hot-breathed  wenches 
To  let  you  grind  the  edges  off  their  teeth. 

GoRMFLAiTH,  shctkiiig  her  head  sadly. 

Life  holds  no  more  than  this  for  me;  this  is  my 

hour. 
When  she  is  dead    I  know  you'll    buy  another 

Queen — 
Giving  a  county  for  her,  gaining  a  duchy  with 

her — 
And  put  me  to  wet  nursing,  leashing  me  with  the 

thralls. 
It  will  not  be  unbearable — I've  had  your  love. 
Master  and  friend,  grant  then  this  hour  to  me: 
Never  again,  maybe,  can  we  two  sit 
At  love  together,  unwatched,  unknown  of  all. 
In  the  Queen's  chamber,  near  the  Queen's  crown 
And  with  no  conscious  Queen  to  hold  it  from  us: 
Now  let  me  wear  the  Queen's  true  crown  on  me 
And  snatch  a  breathless  knowledge  of  the  feeling 
Of  what  it  would  have  been  to  sit  by  you 
Always  and  closely,  equal  and  exalted. 
To  be  my  light  when  life  is  dark  again. 

Lear. 

Girl,  by  the  black  stone  god,  I  did  not  think 
You  had  the  nature  of  a  chambermaid, 
Who  pries  and  fumbles  in  her  lady's  clothes 
With  her  red  hands,  or  on  her  soily  neck 
Stealthily  hangs  her  lady's  jewels  or  pearls. 
You  shall  be  tiring-maid  to  the  next  queen 

26 


KING      LEAR'S      WIFE 

And  try  her  crown  on  every  day  o'  your  life 
In  secrecy,  if  that  is  your  desire: 
If  you  would  be  a  queen,  cleanse  yourself  quickly 
Of  menial  ringcring  and  servile  thought. 

GOU.MFLAITH. 

You  need  not  crown  me.    Let  me  put  it  on 
As  briclly  as  a  gleam  of  Winter  sun. 
I  will  not  even  warm  it  with  my  hair. 

Lear. 

You  cannot  have  the  nature  of  a  queen 
If  you  believe  that  there  are  things  above  you: 
Crowns  make  no  queens,  queens  are  the  cause  of 
crowns. 

GoR.Mi'LAiTH,  dipping  from  his  knee. 
Then  I  will  take  owii.    Look. 

Slic  tip-toes  lightly  round  the  front  of  the 
bed  to  where  the  crown  hangs  on  the 
•mall. 

Li:ar.  ^ 

Come  here,  mad  thing — come  back! 
Your  shadow  will  wake  the  Queen. 

GORMFLAITH. 

Hush,  hush!    That  angry  voice 
Will  surely  wake  the  Queen. 

She  lifts  the  crown  from  the  peg,  and  re- 
turns with  it. 

Lear. 

Go  back ;  bear  back  the  crown : 
Hang  up  the  crown  again. 
We  are  not  helpless  serfs 
To  think  things  are  forbidden 
And  steal  them  for  our  joy. 

27 


KING      LEA    R'S      WIFE 

GORMFLAITH. 

Hush!   Hush!    It  is  too  late; 
I  dare  not  go  again. 

Lear. 

Put  down  the  crown  :  your  hands  are  base  hands 

yet. 
Give  it  to  me:  it  issues  from  my  hands. 

GoRMFLAiTH,  Seating  herself  on  his  knee  again^ 
and  crowning  herself. 

Let  anger  keep  your  eyes  steady  and  bright 

To  be  my  guiding  mirror:  do  not  move. 

You  have  received  two  queens  within  your  eyes. 
She  laughs  clearly,  like  a  bird's  sudden 
song.  Hygd  awakes  and,  after  an  in- 
stanfs  bewilderment,  tiu-ns  her  head 
toward  the  sound;  finding  t/ie  bed- 
curtain  dropt,  she  moves  it  aside  a 
little  with  her  fingers;  she  watches 
Lear  and  Gormelaith  for  a  short 
time,  then  the  curtain  slips  from  her 
weak  grasp  and  she  lies  motionless. 

Lear,  continuing  meanwhile. 

Doff  it.  [GoK'^WLAiTn  kisses  him.)  Enough.  {Kiss) 

Unless  you  do  (Kiss)  my  will  (Kiss) 
I  shall  (Kiss)  I  shall  {Kiss)  I'll  have  you  {Kiss) 

sent  (Kiss)  to  {Kiss) 

GORMFLAITH.  Hush. 

Lear. 

Come  to  the  garden :  you  shall  hear  me  there. 

'  28 


KING      LEAR'S     WIFE 

GORMFLAITH. 

I  dare  not  leave  the  Queen.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  I  come. 

Lear. 

No,  you  are  better  here:  the  guard  would  see  you. 

GORMFLAITH. 

Not  when  we  reach  the  pathway  near  the  apple- 
yard.  They  rise. 

Lear. 

Girl,  you  are  changed :  you  yield  more  beauty  so. 
Tliey  go  out  hand  in  hand  by  the  door- 
ivay  at  the  back.  As  they  pass  the 
crumpled  letter  Gormflaith  drops 
her  handkerchief  on  it^  then  picks  up 
handkerchief  and  letter  together  and 
thrusts  them  into  her  bosom  as  she 
passes  out. 

Hygd,  Jlngering  back  the  bed-curtain  again. 
How  have  they  vanished?  What  are  they  doing 
now? 

Gormflaith,  outside^  singing  to  a  quick,  chatter- 
ing tune. 
If  you  have  a  mind  to  kiss  me 
You  shall  kiss  me  in  the  dark: 
Yet  rehearse,  or  you  might  miss  me — 
Make  my  mouth  your  noontide  mark.  .  .  . 

Gormflaith's  voice  grotos  fainter  as  the 
song  progresses,  until  all  sound  is 
lost. 

Hygd. 

Does  he  remember  love-ways  used  with  me? 

^9 


KING      LEA    R'S      WIFE 

Shall  I  never  know?  Is  it  too  near? 

I'll  watch  him  at  his  wooing  once  again, 

Though  I  peer  up  at  him  across  my  grave-sill. 

She  gets  out  of  bed  and  takes  several  steps 
toivard  the  garden  doorivay;  she  tot- 
ters and  sways,  then,  tur?img,  stum- 
bles back  to  the  bed  for  support. 

Limbs, will  you  die?  It  is  not  yet  the  time. 

I  know  more  discipline:  I'll  make  you  go. 

She  fumbles  along  the  bed  to  the  head, 
then,  clinging  against  the  wall, 
drags  herself  toward  the  back  of  the 
r 00171. 

It  is  too  far.    I  cannot  see  the  wall. 

I  will  go  ten  more  steps:  only  ten  more. 

One.  Two.  Three.   Four.   Five. 

Six.  Seven.   Eight.   Nine.  Ten. 

Sundown  is  soon  to-day:  it  is  cold  and  dark. 

Now  ten  steps  more,  and  much  will  have  been 
done. 

One.  Two.  Three.   Four.  Ten. 

Eleven.  Twelve.  Sixteen.   Nineteen.  Twenty. 

Twenty-one.        Twenty-three.        Twenty-eight. 
Thirty.  Thirty-one. 

At  last  the  turn.  Thirty-six.  Thirty-nine.   Forty. 

Now  only  once  again.  Two.  Three. 

What  do  the  voices  say?  I  hear  too  many. 

The  door:  but  here  there  is  no  garden.  .  .  .  Ah! 
She  holds  herself  up  an  instant  by  the 
door-curtains  ;  the^i  shereels  and  falls , 
her  body  in  the  room,  her  head  and 
shoulders  beyond  the  curtains. 
GoNERiL  enters  by  the  door  beyond  the 
bed,  carrying  the  filled  ctip  carefully 
in  both  hands. 
30 


KING      LEA    R'S      WIFE 

GONERIL. 

Where  are  you?  What  have  you  done?  Speak  to 
me. 

Turning  and  seeing  Hygd,  sJie  lets  the 
cup  fall  and  leaps  to  the  opeti  door  by 
the  bed. 
Merryn,  hither,  hither.  .  .  .  Mother,  O  mother! 
She  goes  to  Hygd.   Merryn  enters. 

Merryn. 

Princess,  what  has  she  done?   Who  has  left  her? 

She  must  have  been  alone. 

GoNERiL.  Where  is  Gormflaith? 

Merryn. 

Mercy  o'  mercies,  everybody  asks  me 

For  Gormflaith,  then    for   Gormflaith,  then    for 

Gormflaith, 
And  I  ask  everybody  else  for  her; 
But  she  is  nowhere,  and  the  King  will  foam. 
Send  me  no  more;  I  am  old  with  running  about 
After  a  bodiless  name. 

GoNERiL.  She  has  been  here, 

And  she  has  left  the  Oueen.    This  is  her  deed. 

Merryn. 

Ah,  cruel,  cruel !  The  shame,  the  pity — 

Goneril.  Lift. 

Together  they  raise  Hygd,  and  carry  her 
to  bed. 
She  breathes,   but  something  flitters  under  her 

flesh : 
Wynoc  the  leech  must  help  us  now.    Go,  run, 

31 


KING      LEA    R'S      WIFE 

Seek  him,  and  come  back  quickly,  and  do  not 

dare 
To  come  without  him. 

Merryn.  It  is  useless,  lady: 

There  's  fever  at  the  cowherd's  in  the  marsh, 
And  Wynoc  broods  above  it  twice  a  day. 
And  I  have  lately  seen  him  hobble  thither. 

GONERIL. 

I  never  heard  such  scornful  wickedness 
As  that  a  king's  physician  so  should  choose 
To  watch  and  even  heal  base  men  and  poor — 
And,  more   than  all,  when    there's   a   queen  a- 
dying.  .  .  . 

Hygd,  recovering  consciousness. 

Whence  come  you,  dearest  daughter?  What  have 

I  done? 
Are  you  a  dream?  I  thought  I  was  alone. 
Have  you  been  hunting  on  the  Windy  Height? 
Your  hands  are  not  thus  gentle  after  hunting. 
Or  have  I  heard  you  singing  through  my  sleep? 
Stay  with  me  now:  I  have  had  piercing  thoughts 
Of  what  the  ways  of  life  will  do  to  you 
To  mould  and  maim  you,  and  I  have  a  power 
To  bring  these  to  expression  that  I  knew  not. 
Why  do  you  wear  my  crown  ?  Why  do  you  wear 
My  crown  I  say?   Why  do  you  wear  my  crown? 
I  am  falling,  falling!  Lift  me:  hold  me  up. 

GoNERiL  climbs  on  the  bed  and  supports 
Hygd  against  her  shoulder. 
It  is  the  bed  that  breaks,  for  still  I  sink. 
Grip  harder:   I  am  slipping! 

32 


KING      LEA    R'S      WIFE 

GoNERiL.  Woman,  help! 

Merrvn  hurries  round  to  the  front  of  the 

bed  and  supports  Hygd  on  her  other 

side. 
\l\'GD  points  at  the  far  corner  of  the  room. 

Hygd. 

Why  is  the  King's  mother  standing  there? 
She  should  not  wear  her  crown  before  me  now. 
Send  her  away,  she  had  a  savage  mind. 
Will  you  not  hang  a  shawl  across  the  corner 
So  that  she  cannot  stare  at  me  again? 

With  a  rending  sob  she  buries  her  face  in 
Goneril's  bosom. 
Ah,  she  is  coming!  Do  not  let  her  touch  me! 
Brave  splendid  daughter,  how  easily  you  save  me : 
But  soon  will  Gormflaith  come,  she  stays  for  ever. 
O,  will  she  bring  my  crown  to  me  once  more? 
Yes,  Gormflaith,  yes.  .  .  .  Daughter,  pay  Gorm- 
flaith well. 

GONERIL. 

Gormflaith  has  left  you  lonely: 
'Tis  Gormflaith  who  shall  pay. 

Hygd. 

No,  Gormflaith;  Gormflaith.  .  .  .  Not  my  loneli- 
ness. .  .  . 
Everything.  .  .  .  Pay  Gormflaith.  .  .  . 

Her   head  falls   back    over   Goneril's 
shotdder  and  she  dies. 

GoNERiL,  laying  Hygd  doivn  in  bed  again. 
Send  horsemen  to  the  marshes  for  the  leech, 

33  D 


KING      L    E    A    R'S     WIFE 

And  let  them  bind  him  on  a  horse's  back 

And  bring  him  swiftlier  than  an  old  man  rides. 

Merrvn. 

This  is  no  leech's  work:  she  's  a  dead  woman. 

I'd  best  be  finding  if  the  wisdom-women 

Have  come  from  Brita's  child-bed  to  their  drinking 

By  the  cook's  fire,  for  soon  she'll  be  past  handling. 

GONERIL. 

This  is  not  death:  death  could  not  be  like  this. 
She  is  quite  warm — though  nothing  moves  in  her. 
I  did  not  know  death  could  come  all  at  once: 
If  life  is  so  ill-seated  no  one  is  safe. 
Cannot  we  leave  her  like  herself  awhile? 
Wait  awhile,  Merryn.  .  .  .  No,  no,  no;  not  yet! 

Merryn. 

Child,  she  is  gone  and  will  not  come  again 

However  we  cover  our  faces  and  pretend 

She  will  be  there  if  we  uncover  them. 

I  must  be  hasty,  or  she'll  be  as  stiff 

As  a  straw  mattress  is. 

She  hurries  out  by  the  door  near  the  bed. 

GoNERiL,  throimng  the  whole  length  of  her  body 

along  Hygd's  body,  and  embracing  it. 
Come  back,   come  back;  the  things  I  have  not 

done 
Beat  in  upon  my  brain  from  every  side: 
1  know  not  where  to  put  myself  to  bear  them  : 
If  1  could  have  you  now  I  could  act  well. 
My  inward  life,  deeds  that  you  have  not  known, 
I  burn  to  tell  you  in  a  sudden  dread 
That  now  your  ghost  discovers  them  in  me, 

34 


KING      LEA    R'S     WIFE 

Hearken,  mother;  between  us  there's  a  bond 
Of  flesh  and  essence  closer  than  love  can  cause: 
It  cannot  be  unknit  so  soon  as  this, 
And  you  must  know  my  touch, 
And  you  shall  yield  a  sign. 

Feel,  feel  this  urging  throb:   I  call  to  you.  Come 
back. 

GoRMFLAiTH,  still  croivnecl,  enters  by  the 
garden  doorway. 

GoRjMFLAITH. 

Come  back!  Help  me  and  shield  me! 

She  disappears  through  the  curtains. 
GoNERiL  has  sprung  to  her  feet  at  the  first 

soimd  o/"GoRMFLAiTn's  voice. 
Lear  enters  by  the  garden  doonvay^  lead- 
ing GoRMFLAiTH  by  the  hand. 

Lear.  What  is  to  do? 

GoNERiL,   advanci7ig  to  meet  them  with  a  deep 

obeisance. 
O,  Sir,  the  Oueen  is  dead:  long  live  the  Oueen. 
You  have  been  ready  with  the  coronation. 

Lear. 

What  do  you    mean?  Young  madam,  will   you 
mock? 

Goneril. 

But  is  not  she  your  choice? 

The  old  Queen  thought  so,  for  I  found  her  here, 
Lipping  the  prints  of  her  supplanter's  feet. 
Prostrate  in  homage,  on  her  face,  silent. 
I  tremble  within  to  ha\'e  seen  her  fallen  down. 
I  must  be  pardoned  if  I  scorn  )Our  ways: 

35 


KING      LEA    R'S     WIFE 

You  cannot  know  this  feeling  that  I  know, 

You  are  not  of  her  kin  or  house;  but  I 

Share  blood  with  her,  and,  though  she  grew  too 

worn 
To  be  your  Queen,  she  was  my  mother.  Sir. 

GORMFLAITH. 

The  Oueen  has  seen  me. 

Lear.  She  is  safe  in  bed. 

GONERIL. 

Do  not  speak  low:  your  voice  sounds  guilty  so; 
And  there  is  no  more  need — she  will  not  wake. 

Lear. 

She  cannot  sleep  for  ever.    When  she  wakes 

I  will  announce  my  purpose  in  the  need 

Of  Britain  for  a  prince  to  follow  me, 

And  tell  her  that  she  is  to  be  deposed.  .  .  . 

What  have  you  done?  She  is  not  breathing  now. 

She  breathed  here  lately.    Is  she  truly  dead? 

GONERIL. 

Your  graceful  consort  steals  from  us  too  soon : 
Will  you  not  tell  her  that  she  should  remain — 
If  she  can  trust  the  faith  you  keep  with  a  queen? 
She  steps  to  Gormflaith,  noho  is  sidling 
toimird    the  garden   doonvay,    and, 
taking  her  hand,  leads  her  to  the  foot 
of  the  bed. 
Lady,  why  will  you  gol  The  King  intends 
Tliat  you  shall  soon  be  royal,  and  thereby 
Admitted  to  our  breed:  then  stay  with  us 
In  this  domestic  privacy  to  mourn 

36 


KING      L    E    A    R'S     WIFE 

The  grief  here  fallen  on  our  family. 
Kneel  now;  I  yield  the  eldest  daughter's  place. 
Why  do  you  fumble  in  your  bosom  so? 
Put  your  cold  hands  together;  close  your  eyes, 
In  inward  isolation  to  assemble 
Your  memories  of  the  dead,  your  prayers  for  her. 
She  turns  to  Lear,  who  has  approached 
the  bed  and  dnrivn  back  the  curtain. 
Wluit  utterance  of  doom  would  the  king  use 
Upon  a  watchman  in  the  castle  garth 
Who  left  his  gate  and  let  an  enemy  in? 
The  watcher  by  the  Queen  thus  left  her  station  : 
The  sick  bruised  Queen  is  dead  of  that  neglect. 
And  what  should  be  the  doom  on  a  seducer 
Who  drew  that  sentinel  from  his  fixt  watch? 

Lear. 

She  had  long  been  dying,  and  she  would  have  died 
Had  all  her  dutiful  daughters  tended  her  bed. 

GONERIL. 

Yes,  she  had  long  been  dying  in  her  heart. 
She  lived  to  sec  you  give  her  crown  away; 
She  died  to  see  you  fondle  a  menial: 
These  blows  you  dealt  now,  but  what  elder  wounds 
Received  them  to  such  purpose  suddenly? 
What  had  you  caused  her  to  remember  most? 
What  things  would  she  be  like  to  babble  over 
In  the  wild  helpless  hour  when  fitful  life 
No  more  can  choose  what  thoughts  it  shall  en- 
couracye 

in 

In  the  tost  mind?  She  has  suffered  you  twice  over. 
Your  animal  thoughts  and  hungry  powers,  this 

day, 
Until  I  knew  you  unkingly  and  untrue. 

37 


KING     LEA    R'S     WIFE 

Lear. 

Punishment  once  taught  you  daughterly  silence; 
It  shall  be  tried  again.  .  .  .  What  has  she  said? 

GONERIL. 

You  cannot  touch  me  now  I  know  your  nature: 
Your  force  upon  my  mind  was  only  terrible 
When  I  believed  you  a  cruel  flawless  man. 
Ruler  of  lands  and  dreaded  judge  of  men, 
Now  you  have  done  a  murder  with  your  mind 
Can  you  see  any  murderer  put  to  death? 
Can  you — 

Lear.  What  has  she  said? 

GONERIL. 

Continue  in  your  joy  of  punishing  evil, 

Your  passion  of  just  revenge  upon  wrong-doers, 

Unkingly  and  untrue? 

Lear.  Enough:  what  do  you  know? 

GONERIL. 

That  which  could  add  a  further  agony 

To  the  last  agony,  the  daily  poison 

Of  her  late,  withering  life;  but  never  word 

Of  fairer  hours  or  any  lost  delight. 

Have  you  no  memory,  either,  of  her  youth, 

While  she  was  still  to  use,  spoil,  forsake. 

That  maims  your  new  contentment  with  a  longing 

For  what  is  gone  and  will  not  come  again? 

Lear. 

I  did  not  know  that  she  could  die  to-day. 
She  had  a  bloodless  beauty  that  cheated  me: 
She  was  not  born  for  wedlock.  She  shut  me  out. 

38 


KING      L    E    A    R'S      WIFE 

She  is  no  colder  now.  .  .  .  I'll  hear  no  more. 
You  shall  be  answered  afterward  for  this. 
Put  something  over  her:  get  her  buried: 
I  will  not  look  on  her  again. 

He    breaks  from    Goneril    and  jlings 
abruptly  out  by  the  door  near  the  bed. 

GORMFLAITH. 

My  King,  you  leave  me! 

Goneril.  Soon  we  follow  him: 

But,  ah,  poor  fragile  beauty,  you  cannot  rise 
While  this  grave  burden  weights  your  drooping 
head. 

Laying  her  hand  caressingly  on  Gorm- 
flaith's    neck,  she  gradully  forces 
her  head  farther  and  farther  doxvn. 
You  were  not  nurtured  to  sustain  a  crown, 
Your  unanointed  parents  could  not  breed 
The  spirit  that  ten  hundred  years  must  ripen. 
Lo,  how  you  sink  and  fail. 

Gormelaith.  You  had  best  take  care, 

For  where  my  neck  has  bruises  yours  shall  have 

wounds. 
The  King  knows  of  your  wolfish  snapping  at  me: 
He  will  protect  me. 

Goneril.  Ay,  if  he  is  in  time. 

GoRMFLAiTH,  taking  off  the  crown  and  holding  it 

up  blindly  toivard  Goneril  zvith  one  hand. 
Take  it  and  let  me  go\ 

Goneril.  Nay,  not  to  me: 

You  are  the  Queen's,  to  serve  her  even  in  death. 

39 


KING      LEA    R'S     WIFE 

Yield  her  her  own.    Approach  her:   do  not  fear; 

She  will  not  chide  you  or  forgive  you  now. 

Go  on  your  knees;  the  crown  still  holds  you  down. 

GoRMFLAiTH    s tumbles  fonvard  on   her 

knees  and  lays  the  crown  on  the  bed, 

then  crouches  motionlessly  aga  inst  the 

bedside. 

GoNERiL,  taking  the  croxmi  and  putting  it  on  the 

dead  Queen'' s  head. 
Mother  and  Queen,  to  you  this  holiest  circlet 
Returns,  by  you  renews  its  purpose  and  pride; 
Though  it  is  sullied  with  a  menial  warmth. 
Your  august  coldness  shall  rehallow  it, 
And  when  the  young  lewd  blood  that  lent  it  heat 
Is  also  cooler  we  can  well  forget. 

She  steps  to  Gormflaith. 
Rise.  Come,  for  here  there  is  no  more  to  do. 
And  let  us  seek  your  chamber,  if  you  will, 
There  to  confer  in  greater  privacy; 
For  we  have  now  interment  to  prepare. 

She  leads  Gormflaith  to  the  door  near 

the  bed. 

You  must  walk  first,  you  are  still  the  Queen  elect. 

When  Gormflaith  has  passed  before  her 

GoNERiL    unsheathes    her   hunting 

knife. 

Gormflaith,  turning  hi  the  doorway. 
What  will  you  do? 

GoNERiL,  thrusting  her  forward  with  the  haft  of 
the  knife.  On.  On.  On.  Go  in. 

She  folloivs  Gormflaith  out. 
After  a   moment* s  interval  two   elderly 
40 


KING      LEAR'S     WIFE 

ivomen,  one  a  little  younger  than  the 
other,  enter  by  the  same  door:  they 
wear  black  hoods  and  shapeless  black 
g07vns  7vith  large  sleeves  that  Jlap  like 
the  wings  of  ungainly  birds:  between 
them  they  carry  a  heavy  cauldron  of 
hot  water. 

The  Younger  Woman. 

We  were  listening-.   We  were  listening. 

The  Elder  Woman.      We  were  both  listening. 

The  Younger  Woman. 
Did  she  struggle? 

The  Elder  Woman. 

She  could  not  struggle  long. 
They  set  down  the  cauldron  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed. 

The  Elder  Woman,  curtseying  to  the  Queen's 

body. 
Saving  your  presence,  Madam,  wc  are  come 
To  make  you  sweeter  than  you'll  be  hereafter, 
And  then  be  done  with  you. 

The  Younger  Woman,  curtseying  in  turn. 
Three  days  together,  my  Lady,  y'havc  had  me 

ducked 
For  easing  a  foolish  maid  at  the  wrong  time; 
But  now  your    breath  is   stopped   and   you  are 

colder. 
And  you  shall  be  as  wet  as  a  drowned  cat 
Ere  I  have  done  with  you. 

41 


KING     LEAR'S      WIFE 

The  Elder  Woman,  fumbling  in  the  folds  of  the 

robe  that  hangs  on  the  wall. 
Her  pocket  is  empty;  Merryn  has  been  here  first. 
Hearken,  and  then  begin  : 
You  have  not  touched  a  royal  corpse  before, 
But  I  have  stretched  a  king  and  an  old  queen, 
A  king's  aunt  and  a  king's  brother  too. 
Without  much  boasting  of  a  still-born  princess; 
So  that  I  know,  as  a  priest  knows  his  prayers, 
All  that  is  written  in  the  chamberlain's  book 
About  the  handling  of  exalted  corpses, 
Stripping  them  and  trussing  them  for  the  grave: 
And  there  it  says  that  the  chief  corpse-washer 
Shall  take  for  her  own  use  by  sacred  right 
The  coverlid,  the  upper  sheet,  the  mattress 
Of  any  bed  in  which  a  queen  has  died. 
And  the  last  robe  of  state  the  body  wore ; 
While  humbler  helpers  may  divide  among  them 
The  under  sheet,  the  pillow,  and  the  bed-gown 
Stript  from  the  cooling  queen. 
Be  thankful,  then,  and 'praise  me  every  day 
That  I  have  brought  no  other  women  with  me 
To  spoil  you  of  your  share. 

The  Younger  Woman. 
Ah,  you  have  always  been  a  friend  to  me: 
Many  's  the  time  I  have  said  I  did  not  know 
How  I  could  even  have  lived  but  for  your  kindness. 
The  Elder  Woman  draws  down  the  bed- 
clothes fro77i  the  Queen's  body,  loosens 
them  from  the  bed,  and  throivs  them 
on  the  floor. 

The  Elder  Woman. 

Pull  her  feet  straight:  is  your  mind  wandering? 

42 


KING      LEAR'S     WIFE 

She   commences    to  fold  the   bedclothes^ 
singing  as  she  moves  about. 

A  louse  crept  out  of  my  lady's  shift — 

Ahuinm,  Ahumm,  Ahee — 

Crying  "  Oi!  Oil  We  are  turned  adrift; 

The  lady's  bosom  is  cold  and  stiffed, 

And  her  arm-pit's  cold  for  me." 

While  the  Eldkr  Woman  sitigs,  the 
Younger  Woman  straightens  the 
Queen's  feet  and  ties  them  together^ 
draws  thepilloivfrom  under  her  head, 
gathers  her  hair  in  one  hand  and 
knots  it  roughly;  then  she  loosens  her 
n  ightgoivn ,  revealing  a  jewel  hung  on 
a  cord  round  the  Queen's  neck. 

The  Elder  Woman,  running  to  the  vacant  side 

of  the  bed. 
What  have  you  there?   Give  it  to  me. 

The  Younger  Woman.  It  is  mine: 

I  found  it. 

The  Elder  Woman,  seizing  the  jewel. 
Leave  it. 

The  Younger  Woman.  Let  go. 

The  Elder  Woman.  Leave  it,  I  say. 

Will  you  not?  Will  you  not?  An  eye  for  a  jewel, 
then! 

She  attacks   the  face  of  the   Younger 
Woal\n  ivith  her  disengaged  hand. 

The  Younger  Woman,  starting  back. 

Oh! 

43 


KING      LEAR'S     WIFE 

The  Elder  Woman  breaks  the  cord  and 
thrusts  the  jewel  into  her  pocket. 

The  Younger  Woman. 

Aie!    Aie!    Aie!     Old    thief!     You    arc   always 

thieving! 
You  stole  a  necklace  on  your  wedding-day: 
You   could    not   bear   a   child,    you   stole   your 

daughter: 

You  stole  a  shroud  the  morn  your  husband  died: 

Last  week  you  stole  the  Princess  Regan's  comb  .  . 

She  stumbles  into  the  chair  bytlie  bed,  and, 

throwing  her  loose  sleeves  over  her 

head,  rocks  herself  and  moans. 

The  Elder  Woman,  resiLming  her  clothes-folding 

and  her  song. 

"  The  lady's  linen  's  no  longer  neat;  " — 

Ahumm,  Ahumm,  Ahee — 

"  Her  savour  is  neither  warm  nor  sweet; 

It's  close  for  two  in  a  winding-sheet, 

And  lice  are  too  good  for  worms  to  eat; 

So  here  's  no  place  for  me." 

GoNERiL  enters  by  the  door  near  the  bed: 
her  knife  and  the  hand  that  holds  it 
are  bloody.  She  pauses  a  moment  ir- 
resolutely. 

The  Elder  Woman. 

Still  work  for  old  Hrogneda,  little  Princess? 

GoNERiL  goes  straight  to  the  cauldron, 
passing  the  iwmen  as  if  they  were  not 
there:  she  kneels  and  -washes  her  knife 
and  her  hand  in  it.  The  women  retire 
to  the  back  of  the  chamber. 
44 


KING      L    E    A    R'S     WIFE 

GoNERiL,  Speaking  to  herself. 

The  way  is  easy:  and  it  is  to  be  used. 

How  could  this  need  have  been  conceived  slowly? 

In  a  keen  mind  it  should  have  leapt  and  burnt: 

What  I  have  done  would  have  been  better  done 

When  my  sad  mother  lived  and  could  feel  joy. 

This   striking   without   thought    is   better   than 

hunting; 
She  showed  more  terror  than  an  animal, 
She  was  more  shiftless.  .  .  . 
A  little  blood  is  lightly  w^ashed  away, 
A  common  stain  that  need  not  be  remembered; 
And  a  hot  spasm  of  rightness  quickly  born 
Can  guide  me  to  kill  justly  and  shall  guide. 

Lear  enters  by  the  door  near  the  bed. 

Lear. 

Goneril,  Gormflaith,  Gormflaith.  .  .  .   Have  you 
seen  Gormflaith? 

Goneril. 

I  led  her  to  her  chamber  lately.  Sir. 

Lear. 

Ay,  she  is  in  her  chamber.    She  is  there. 

Goneril. 

Have  you  been  there  already?    Could    you   not 
wait? 

Lear. 

Daughter,  she  is  bleeding:  she  is  slain. 

Goneril,  rising frow  the  cauldron  with  dripping 

hands. 
Yes,  she  is  slain:   I  did  it  with  a  knife: 

45 


KING      LEA    R'S     WIFE 

And  in  this  water  is  dissolved  her  blood, 

{Raising  her  arms  and  sprinkling  the 
Queen's  body) 
That  now  I  scatter  on  the  Queen  of  death 
For  signal  to  her  spirit  that  I  can  slake 
Her  long  corrosion  of  misery  with  such  balm — 
Blood  for  weeping,  terror  for  woe,  death  for  death, 
A  broken  body  for  a  broken  heart. 
What  will  you  say  against  me  and  my  deed? 

Lear. 

That  now  you  cannot  save  yourself  from  me. 

While  your  blind  virgin  power  still  stood  apart 

In  an  unused,  unviolated  life, 

You  judged  me  in  my  weakness,  and  because 

I  felt  you  unflawed  I  could  not  answer  you; 

Rut  you  have  mingled  in  mortality 

And  violently  begun  the  common  life 

By  fault  against  your  fellows ;  and  the  state, 

liie  state  of  Britain  that  inheres  in  me 

Not  touched  by  my  humanity  or  sin, 

Passions  or  privy  acts,  shall  be  as  hard 

And  savage  to  you  as  to  a  murderess. 

GoNERiL,  taking  a  letter  from  her  girdle. 
I  found  a  warrant  in  her  favoured  bosom,  King: 
She  wore  this  on  her  heart  when  you  were  crown- 
ing her. 

Lear,  opening  the  letter. 
But  this  is  not  my  hand: 

{Looking  about  him  on  the  floor) 
Where  is  the  other  letter? 

Gonrril. 

Is  there  another  letter?  What  should  it  say? 

46 


KING      LEA    R'S     WIFE 

Lear. 

There  is  no  other  letter  if  you  have  none. 

{JReading) 
'*  Open  your  window  when  the  moon  is  dead, 
And  I  will  come  again. 

The  men  say  everywhere  that  you  are  faithless. .  .  . 
And  your  eyes  shifty  eyes.    Ah,  but  I  love  you, 

Gormflaith.  .  .  ." 
This  is  not  hers:  she'd  not  receive  such  words. 

GONKRIL. 

Her  name  stands  twice  therein :  her  perfume  fills  it: 
My  knife  went  through  it  ere  I  found  it  on  her. 

Lear. 

The   filth    is    suitably  dead.     You  are    my    true 
daughter. 

GONERIL. 

I  do  not  understand  how  men  can  govern, 
Use  craft  and  exercise  the  duty  of  cunning, 
Anticipate  treason,  treachery  meet  with  treachery, 
And  yet  believe  a  woman  because  she  looks 
Straight    in   their  eyes   with   mournful,    trustful 

gaze, 
And  lisps  like  innocence,  all  gentleness. 
Your  Gormflaith  could  not  answer   a   woman's 

eyes. 
I  did  not  need  to  read  her  in  a  letter; 
I  am  not  woman  yet,  but  I  can  feel 
What  untruths  are  instinctive  in  my  kind. 
And  how  some  men  desire  deceit  from  us. 
Come;  let  these  washers  do  what  they  must  do: 
Or  shall   your  Oueen   be  wrapped  and  cofiined 

awry?      She  goes  out  by  the  garden  doonvay. 

47 


KING      LEAR'S      WIFE 

Lear. 

I  thought  she  had  been  broken  long  ago: 

She  must  be  wedded  and  broken,  I  cannot  do  it. 

He  follo-ws  GoNERiL  out. 

The  two  women  return  to  the  bedside. 
The  Elder  Woman. 
Poor,  masterful  King,  he  is  no  easier, 
Although  his  tearful  wife  is  gone  at  last: 
A  wilful  girl  shall  prick  and  thwart  him  now. 
Old  gossip,  we  must  hasten  ;  the  Queen  is  setting. 
Lend  me  a  pair  of  pennies  to  weight  her  eyes. 

The  Younger  Woman. 

Find  your  own  pennies:  then  you  can  steal  them 
safely. 

The  Elder  Woman. 

Praise  you  the  gods  of  Britain,  as  I  do  praise 

them. 
That  I  have  been  sweet-natured  from  my  birth, 
And  that  I  lack  your  unforgiving  mind. 
Friend  of  the  worms,  help  me  to  lift  her  clear 
And  draw  away  the  under  sheet  for  you ; 
Then  go  and  spread  the  shroud  by  the  hall  fire — 
I  never  could  put  damp  linen  on  a  corpse. 
She  sings. 
The  louse  made  off  unhappy  and  wet; — 
Ahumm,  Ahumm,  Ahee — 
He  's  looking  for  us,  the  little  pet; 
So  haste,  for  her  chin  's  to  tie  up  yet. 
And  let  us  be  gone  with  what  we  can  get — 
Her  ring  for  thee,  her  gown  for  Bet, 
Her  pocket  turned  out  for  me. 

Curtain. 
48 


THE  CRIER  BY  NIGHT 


E 


TO 

MY  DEAR  SCRIBE 


PERSONS: 

HiALTi,  a  Northman. 
Thorgerd,  his  Wife. 
Blanid,  an  Irish  Bondmaid. 
An  Old  Strange  Man. 


THE  CRIER  BY  NIGHT 

Tlie  scene  is  the  interior  of  a  cottaf^e  near  a  misty 
mere  and  among  unseen  mountains  on  a  wild 
night  of  late  Autumn.  In  the  hack  wall  area 
door  to  the  left  and  a  long  low  window  in  the 
middle;  the  latter  is  shuttered  on  the  outside, 
and  on  door  and  7vindo7v  the  wind-driven  rain 
rattles.  In  the  middle  of  the  left-hand  wall  a 
door  leads  into  an  outhouse ;  near  it  is  a  loom: 
toward  t/ie  front  of  the  right-hand  ivall  another 
door  leads  to  a  sleeping-chamber ;  a  settle  ex- 
tends along  this  wall  and  in  front  of  it  a  long 
table  is  set.  Two  rushlights  burn  on  the 
table.  A  round  hearth  is  in  the  middle  of  the 
house;  its  smoke  rises  into  a  luffer  which 
hangs  from  the  thatched  roof  between  two 
beams.  The  floor  is  thickly  strewmmth  rushes. 
There  are  several  wooden  stools  about  the 
hearth,  on  oneofwhichWiALii  is  sitting  mend- 
ing harness.  Thorgkrd  is  standing  near  the 
loom,  spinning  with  a  distaff. 

HiALTI. 

'TT^HE  lass  is  late  about;  where  is  she  now? 

Thorgerd. 

Let  the  lass  be.    What  is  the  lass  to  you? 

53 


THE     CRIER      BY      NIGHT 

She  is  my  lass  to  handle  as  I  will — 
My  father  gave  her  to  me  for  my  own, 
And  so  I  use  her  as  I  use  my  gear  .  .  . 
"She  will  not  last  "  say  you?  Well,  what  of  that? 
I  know  gear  must  wear  out,  being  well  used; 
Shoes  must  be  trodden  under-foot  all  day. 
Though  in  the  mire  they  go  and  to  the  mire; 
The  hearth-fire  wastes  the  irons  used  to  tend  it: 
I  am  the  huswife — leave  the  house  to  me 
And  buy  me  new  gear  when  the  old  is  rotten. 

HiALTI. 

You  drive  her  over  hard.    In  the  cold  dark, 
Hours  ere  the  thin  late  dawn,  she  was  afoot. 
And  she  has  been  afoot  each  moment  since: 
The  butter  will  not  come  now  without  fire. 
But  I  was  wakened  in  the  frosty  night 
By  the  slow  moaning  of  her  weary  churn, 
And  when  I  rose  she  stood  here  without  shoes — 
She  said  you  took  them  from  her ;  so  I  sought. 
And  gave  her  them  again,  and  lit  the  fire. 
She  dare  not  sleep  with  half  your  tasks  undone. 
But  you  slept  and  your  sleep  was  all  her  rest; 
Yet  in  her  land  'tis  you  would  be  the  thrall. 
You  shut  the  hens  in  from  the  storm  all  day. 
But  she  must  trudge  with  peat-mull  in  a  swill 
Up  from  the  water-side  and  down  all  day  .  .  . 

Thorgerd 

vSparc  her  and  have  my  firing  spoilt?  Not  I. 

Had  it  been  sodden,  how  could  you  light  her  fires? 

HiALTI. 

You  drive  her  over  hard. 

54 


THE     CRIER     BY     NIGHT 

Thorgerd.  What  is  it  to  you? 

Fodder  and  yoke  your  neats,  see  tu  your  swine, 

Put  them  to  breed,  and  leave  my  stock  to  me. 

If  this  is  over  hard,  what  will  it  be — 

Last  week  she  still  could  smile  sometimes,  so  yet 

She  smiles  too  often  for  my  happiness. 

What  money  did  the  calves  fetch  at  the  fair? 

HiALTI. 

Where  is  she  now? 

Thorgerd.  What  money  did  the  calves 

F'etch  at  the  fair  last  week? 

HiALTi.  Where  is  she  now? 

Thorgerd. 

I  spilt  the  water;  she  must  needs  draw  more. 

HiALTI. 

The  roof-drip  at  the  door  would  fill  her  pails. 

Thorgerd. 

What  money  did  the  calves  fetch  at  the  fair? 

HiALTI. 

You  need  not  ask;  you  had  it  all  to  hoard. 

Thorgerd. 

You  kept  some  back;  who  bought  them? 

HiALTI.  He  who  paid. 

The  outside  door  opens  a7id,  as  the  i-ain 

drives  in,  Blanid  enters  carrying  two 

pails  of-iiHiter  by  a  yoke.    Her  short- 

55 


THE     CRIER      BY     NIGHT 

sleeved,frayed,  hempen  smock  is  drip- 
pin  g-wet;  an  old  cart-strap  is  buckled 
about  her  middle;  her  ankles  are  bare, 
but  her  feet  are  covered  by  shapeless 
brogues ;  her  matted  hair  is  cut  shorty 
and  she  has  an  iron  collar  about  her 
neck.  She  sets  doimi  her  pails ^  and 
rm'th  difficulty  shuts  and  bolts  the  door 
against  the  wind.  Then  she  carries 
her  pails  into  the  outhouse;  as  she 
moves  about  ivithin  she  is  heard  to 
sing  to  a  tired^  monotonous  tune. 

Blanid, 

The  bird  in  my  heart 's  a-calling  through  a  far- 
fled,  tear-grey  sea 

To  the  soft  slow  hills  that  cherish   dim   waters 
weary  for  me, 

Where  the  folk  of  rath  and  dun  trail  homeward 
silently 
In  the  mist  of  the  early  night-fall  that  drips  from 
their  hair  like  rain. 

The  bird  in   my  heart's  a-flutter,  for  the  bitter 

wind  of  the  sea 
Shivers  with  thyme  and  woodbine  as  my  body 

with  memory ; 
I    feel    their    perfumes   ooze    in    my     ears    like 

melody — 
The  scent  of  the  mead  at  the  harping  I  shall 

not  hear  again. 

The  bird  in  my  heart's  a-sinking  to  a  hushed  vale 

hid  in  the  sea, 
Where    the    moonlit  dew   o'er  dead    fighters    is 

stirred  by  the  feet  of  the  Shee, 

56 


THE     CRIER     BY     NIGHT 

Who  are  lovely  and  old  as  the  earth  but  younger 
than  I  can  be 
Who  have  known  the  forgetting  of  dying  to  a 
life  one  lonely  pain  .  .  . 

Slie  returns  from  the  outhouse. 

THORGKRD. 

Come  here;  give  me  your  shoes;  quickly,  I  say. 
Why  must  you  go  shod  softly?   Give  me  your 

shoes. 

She  takes  them  and  puts  them  on  the  fire. 
Is  there  some  joy  so  deep  within  you  still 
That    I    have  missed    it   though  'tis  bright    for 

singing? 
It  shall  not  be  so  long;  sing  while  you  can. 

Blanid. 

No  joy  ever  sank  deep  enough  for  singing; 

Trouble  and  all  the  sorrowful  ways  of  men 

Must  stir  the  sad  unrest  that  ends  in  song. 

Joy  seeks  but  peace  and  silence  and  still  thought ; 

But  those  who  cannot  weep  must  sing  for  ease, 

And  in  the  sound  forget  the  thought  that  smote  it. 

THORGKRD. 

I  am  made  glad,  hearing  your  misery; 

Yet  all  the  shapeless,  creeping,  shivering  sounds 

You  wail  about  the  house  will  make  me  share  it. 

Your  songs  of  faery  and  nameless  kings 

And  things  that  never  happened  long  ago 

And  an  unknown,  impossible,  shadowy  land 

Are  useless  as  the  starlight  after  moonset 

That  will  not  light  men  homeward  from  the  fair — 

Nay,  useless  as  its  melting  down  thin  water: 

If  you  must  sing,  sing  truth  to  gut-strong  tunes — 

57 


THE      CRIER     BY     NIGHT 

Of  Gunnar  or  of  Freya  or  Andvari, 
Vineland  the  Good  and  the  old  Western  sea. 

Blanid. 

Things  need  not  happen  that  they  may  be  true; 
Although  impossible,  they  may  be  true — 
The  things  that  matter  happen  in  the  heart. 
All  earthly  truth  is  true  but  for  a  time, 
Whilst  ages  may  be  altered  by  one  dream — 
The  things  that  matter  happen  in  the  heart  .  .  . 

Thorgerd. 

Useless  as  starlight  or  the  aimless  wind. 

Blanid. 

The  wind  is  all  the  souls  of  those  sad  dead 
Who  will  not  stay  in  Heaven  for  love  of  earth  ; 
Hither  and  thither  they  surge  to  find  the  gate 
They  see  and  know  not  on  its  new,  strange  side. 
For  they  have  learned  too  much  to  be  let  back. 
Ah,  some  have  learned  too  much  before  they  die. 
As   she   crosses   the   house   at   the  back 
HiALTi  turns  and,  catching  her  hands 
in  his,  draws  her  toward  him. 

HiALTI. 

Is  it  too  hard,  the  thought  of  that  lost  vale? 

Blanid. 

It  is  too  hard,  because  I  must  so  love  it 
That  were  I  free  I  should  go  there  no  more. 
Lest  I  should  hate  it.    I  must  always  suffer, 
I  only  suffer  this  way  rather  than  that — 
'Tis  the  eternal  suffering  of  love 
Must  search  me  somehow  with  love's  pitilessness 
To  make  me  know  all  souls ;  what  matter  how? 

58 


THE     CRIER      BY     NIGHT 

O,  I  am  but  a  troubled  dream  of  God's, 
And  even  His  will  can  alter  not  His  dreams; 
Yea,  He  is  dreaming  me  a  little  while — 
I  must  be  dreamed  out  to  the  hardest  end. 
Returning  then  to  be  unknown  in  Him  ; 
I  shall  be  Him  again  when  He  awakes. 
Ah,  God,  awake,  and  so  forget  me  soon. 

Thorgkrd,  siviiigin^  her  aside  by  the  collar  on 

her  neck. 
Set  on  the  water  for  the  porridge;  go. 

Blanid  goes  into  the  outhouse;   Thor- 
gkrd continues  to  Hialti. 
Why  must  you  hold  her  hands  and  hold  her  eyes? 

HiALTI. 

Under  each  dark  grey  lash  a  long  tear  slid. 
Like  rain  in  a  wild  rose's  shadowy  curve 
Bowed  in  the  wind  about  the  morning  twilight. 


Thorgkrd. 

Have  done;   I  know;  you  left  the  fair  at  noon 

To    reach   the  copse  just  at  the  young  moon's 

setting — 
I  could  not  find  her  till  i'  the  night-hid  copse 
A    woman's    voice    sobbed    "  If   he    would    but 

come  .  .  ." 

HiALTI. 

It  is  not  true;  you  know  it  is  not  true. 

Let  her  alone;  you  know  that  I  must  love  you. 

And  if  she  loves  me  she  will  know  it  too 

And  hurt  herself  far  more  than  you  can  hurt  her. 

59 


THE     CRIER     BY      NIGHT 

Thorgerd. 

I  hear  you  say  it:  and  afterward?  .  .  .  Perhaps 

My  Httle  shears  are  sharp  as  any  knife. 

HiALTI. 

You  would  not  kill  her? 

Thorgerd,     When  have  I  grown  kind-hearted? 
She  lays  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  and, 
leaning  her  mouth  to  his  ear,  speaks 
ill  a  low,  distinct  voice. 
Slit  nose  and  lip  and  where  's  her  beauty  then? 

He  starts  from  his  stool. 
Nay,  are  my  kinsfolk  as  far  off  as  hers? 

He  turns  a7vay  as  Blanid  enters  with  an 
iron  pot  which  she  hangs  from  a  hook 
over  the  fire,  and  a  pitcher  of  milk 
which  she  sets  on  the  table. 
Thorgerd  takes  the  pot  from  the  fire. 
Here  's  too  much  water;  it  will  never  boil, 
And  if  it  did  the  mess  would  be  too  thin. 

She  pours  ivater  from  the  pot  upon  the 
floor,  then  hangs  the  pot  over  the  fire 
again. 
Set  out  the  bowls,  and  finger  not  their  lips. 

Blanid  goes  again  to  the  outhouse,  and, 

returning,  sets  three  bowls  with  spoons 

on  the  table,  and  a  far  of  meal  by  the 

hearth. 

Though  porridge  needs  meal  you  shall  not  think 

for  me ; 
Do  nought  until  I  bid  you — once.    The  grain. 

Blanid  goes  yet  again  to  the  outhouse 
and  returns  7vith  a  bag  of  grain. 
60 


THE     CRIER      BY     NIGHT 

You  know  what  grain  is  for;  why  do  you  stand? 
Your  feet  are  mine.  Down  to  the  quern.  Get  down. 

Blanid. 

There's  meal  in  plenty  for  to-morrow. 

Thorgerd,    laying    doimi   her   distaff  to    make 

porridge.  Ay, 

But  is  there  meal  in  plenty  for  next  month? 
You  may  be  dead  then;  therefore  you  must  toil, 
That  I  may  need  to  do  no  aching  tasks 
Until  my  man  can  buy  another  drudge 
From  the  next  herd;  for  so  we  shall  forget  you. 

Blanid,  kneeling  by  the  quern  between  the  ivindoiv 
and  the  door,  and  commencing  to  grind  grain. 
You  hate  me  far  too  subtly  to  forget  me ; 
There  is  not  enough  kindness  in  your  heart 
To  let  you  thus  forego  your  joy  of  hate. 
Then,  too,  despite  the  accident  of  death, 
I  cannot  ^o  from  here  against  my  will. 

Thorgerd. 

You  shall  not  die  ere  I  have  done  with  you; 
And  death  shall  only  come  by  suffering 
Until  you  are  too  feeble  even  to  suffer. 

Blanid. 

The  sound  of  death  is  ever  in  mine  ears, 

Monotonous  as  the  night's  infinity 

Wherein  I  was  once  born  where  salt  winds  sweep 

The  wailing  of  the  waters  of  the  West. 

I  die,  but  you  can  ne'er  have  done  with  me. 

Thorgerd,  the  porridge  being  made. 
Come,  drudge,  lift  off  the  pot  and  fill  the  bowls. 

6i 


THE     CRIER      BY     NIGHT 

Blanid,  having  filled  two  bowls. 
The  pot  is  empty. 

Thorgerd.  But  the  bowls  are  full. 

HiALTI. 

Now  give  the  lass  some  supper;  fill  her  bowl. 

Thorgerd,  pouring  milk  over  the  porridge. 

There  's  but  enough  for  two;  I'll  make  no  more. 

Here,  take  the  pot  and  scrape  it  at  the  quern. 

HiALTi  and  Thorgerd  draiv  stools  to  the 
table;  Blamd  carries  the  pot  to  the 
outhouse  and  returns  to  the  quern; 
supper  proceeds  in  silence  for  a  few 
moments.,  then  Hialti  rises  and 
offers  his  bowl  to  Blanid. 

Hialti. 

Share  with  me,  lass;  I  need  no  more  to-night. 

Before  Blanid  can  taste  the  porridge 
Thorgerd  strikes  the  bowl  from  her 
hand. 

Hialti,  indignantly.,  as  he  reaches  to  Thorgerd's 

bowl. 
She   shall   have   yours;    ^o   you   and    make    us 
more  .  .  . 

He  is  interrupted  by  a  distant  availing 
which  is  heard  through  the  storm. 

The  Voice. 

Obey!  Obey!  Ohohey! 

Blanid. 

Master,  I  hear  one  calling  in  the  night. 

62 


THE     CRIER      BY     NIGHT 

HiALTi,  in  a  subdued  voice. 

It  is  the  wind  across  the  chimney-slates. 

The  Voice. 
Ohey!  Ohohey! 

Blanid. 

Master,  a  man  is  callin^^  in  the  night. 

HiALTI. 

An  owl,  storm-beaten,  drowns  down    the    long 
mere. 

The  Voice,  sounding  nearer  on  a  gust  ofivind. 
Ohohey!  Ohohey! 

Blanid. 

Master,  one  lost  is  helpless  in  the  night. 

Thorgerd,  gently  and  imth  an  eager  smile. 
Ay,  lass,  good  lass;  go^  lass,  and  seek  for  him — 
Maybe  he  sinks  amid  the  marshy  reeds; 
Bring  him  to  warmth  and  supper  and  a  bed. 
I'll  shut  the  door;  the  light  will  only  daze  you. 

HiALTi,  leaping  to  the  door  in  front  of  Blanid, 

and  setting  his  back  to  it. 
No,   no;  back,  girl,  get  back.  {To  Thorgerd.) 

You  murderess. 
You  know  it  is  the  Crier  of  the  Ford, 
Who  wakens  when  the  clashing  waters  rise 
And  the  thick  night  is  choked  with  level  rain. 
He  is  not  seen ;  he  was  not  born ;  he  gathers 
His  bodiless  being  from  the  treacherous  tarn. 
His  aged  crying  gropes  about  the  storm 

63 


THE      CRIER     BY     NIGHT 

To  snare  the  spent  wayfarer  to  the  ford, 

Or  draw  some  pitiful  helper  to  the  ford, 

And  drown  them  where  the  unknown  water  swirls 

And  strangle  them  with  long  brown  water-weed: 

He  seeks  their  souls  for  his  old  soul  to  feed  on, 

Because  it  has  no  body  to  nourish  it. 

Thorgerd,  hastily  yet  sullenly. 
How  should.!  know? 

She  grips  Blanid's  shoulder  and  hurries 
her  to  the  outhouse. 

Get  in  with  you  to  your  straw. 

She  thrusts  lier  into  the  outhouse  and  shuts 

the  door  upon  her;  then  she  turns  to 

HiALTI. 

Fool,  now  I  know  you  love  her  behind  your  heart. 

HiALTI. 

I  have  no  mind  to  waste  a  half-spent  thrall 
To  prove  I  love  you;  and  to  buy  another 
Would  need  more  money  than  eight  red-polled 
stirks. 

Thorgerd. 

Choose  between  her  and  me;  if  you  take  her, 

I  take  the  land. 

HiALTI.  I  love  you  overmuch 

To  set  you  equally  against  a  thrall. 

Thorgerd. 

What,  do  I  touch  you  when  I  touch  your  fields? 

HiALTI. 

To-morrow  I  must  drive  the  sold  ewes  home 
And  lead  more  bedding  from  the  bracken-fell 

'64 


THE     CRIER      BY     NIGHT 

If  the  storm  clears— it  is  well  stacked  and  dry; 
So  we  must  be  a-stirring  by  lantern-light, 
Since  now  you  will  not  have  the  lass  go  with  me 
To  milk,  but  go  yourself  although  three  cows 
Will  not  let  down  their  milk  to  you  at  all, 
You    drag   their   teats   so:    waking-time   comes 

soon — 
Best  get  to  bed. 

Thorgerd. 

And  leave  you  to  go  to  your  straw's  wench? 

HiALTi,  taking  a  rushlight  in  his  hand. 
Here  are  enough  of  your  unfaithful  words; 
I'll  alter  this  to-morrow. 

Thorgerd.  Ay,  to-morrow. 

HiALTi  enters  the  sleeping-chamber;  after 
watching  the  door  close  upon  /ii?ji, 
Thorgerd,  her  hands  clenched  and 
her  arms  rigid,  stoiftly  steps  half  ivay 
toward  the  outhouse;  then,  suddenly 
relaxing  into  a  pause  and  smiling 
with  tight  lips  as  she  shakes  her  head 
slightly  and  sharply,  she  turns  to  the 
table  again,  doffs  her  coif  and  dra^vs 
her  hair  down,  blows  out  the  remain- 
ing rushlight,  and  follows  Hialti 
into  the  sleeping-chamber. 
Henceforth  the  cottage  is  only  lit  by  the 
ever-dying  fire.  A  long,  empty  silence 
ensues,  broken  only  by  the  tumult  of 
the  storm  and  the  tinkle  of  the  sinking 
embers. 

65  F 


THE     CRIER     BY      NIGHT 

Then  the  outhouse  door  opens  slowly  and 
from  it  Blanid  steps  listeningly 
across  the  house,  in  front  of  the  hearth, 
to  thedoorofthe  sleeping-chamber ,  re- 
maining there  for  a  little  time  toith 
her  ear  against  the  door-boards;  then 
she  returns  noiselessly  across  the 
house,  behind  the  hearth,  pausing 
near  the  house  door. 

Blanid,  in  a  hushed  voice. 

If  day  were  only  darkness  melting  down 

From  darkness  into  darkness  like  this  rain, 

Lost  ere  'tis  known,  then  I  might  always  sleep 

And  sleep  and  dream  I  was  a  queen  once  more — 

She  does  not  know  I  was  a  jewelled  queen, 

For  so  I  spoil  her  of  new  heights  of  joy 

In  which  she  might  for  haughtiness  fondle  me. 

O,  I  would  sleep  in  that  old  Crier's  arms. 

Enduring  silence  harder  than  all  else, 

A  mote  shut  into  one  cold,  kneaded  eyelid 

Of  the  dead  mere;  and  dream  into  the  wind. 

And  cling  to  stars  lest  I  should  slip  through  space ; 

And  dream  I  am  the  body  of  him  I  love, 

Who  yields  me  only  kindness,  never  love — 

O  me,  that  misery  of  hopeless  kindness. 

But  I'll  not  die  and  leave  him  to  her  lips; 

Though  I  can  never  have  him  she  shall  not; 

For  I  can  use  this  body  worn  to  a  soul 

To  barter  with  that  Crier  of  hidden  things 

That,  if  he  tangles  him  in  his  chill  hair, 

Then    I   will   follow  and    follow  and  follow  and 

follow. 
Past  where  the  imaged  stars  ebb  past  their  light 
And  turn  to  water  under  the  dark  world. 

66 


THE     CRIER      BY     NIGHT 

She  ^oes  out  into  the  storm,  leaving  tJie 
door  open  behind  her.    Presently  she 
is  heard  singing  to  a  chant-like^  ever- 
falling  melody. 
I  stand  in  the  sick  night,  whose  hid  shape  is  my 
own  shape, 
As  dazed  life  in  the  flickering  hearts  of  old  men ; 
I  think  like  a  lean  heron  with  bald  head  and  frayed 
nape 
Motionlessly  moulting  in  a  flat  pool  of  a  grey 

fen, 
Whose  sleep-blinked  horny  eyes  know  it  can 
ne'er  moult  again. 

My  age-long  cry  droops  in  the  hoar  unseen  stars 
that  shake 

Until  their  discordant  rays  make  darkness  in- 
side the  sky; 
My  bare  cry  shivers  along  the  slimy  rushes  of  the 
drowned  lake — 

Weariful  waters,  do  you  hear  a  soul's  hair  ting- 
ling your  veiled  feet  nigh? 

I    stand  outside  my  keen   body,  yearning  into 
you  as  I  cry. 

HiALTi,  ivithin. 

Is  that  the  lass  sobbing  a  song  in  sleep? 

Thorgerd,  within. 

The  wind,  the  wind,  and  so  as  much  as  she. 

Blanid,  still  out  of  doors,  singing. 

Old  father  of  many  waters,  can  you  feel  my  soul 

touching  yours? 
I  know  that  to  greet  your  calling  leaves  me  no 

more  any  yea  or  nay; 

67 


THE     CRIER     BY     NIGHT 

Yet  I  too  am   of  kin  with  lost  woods  and  sedgy 
shores, 
So  come  secret  as  your  black  wind  and  take  the 

dark  core  of  my  heart  away, 
Ere  you  beget  me  on  death  to  be  still-born  to 
an  unlit  day. 
Obey!  Obey!  Ohohey! 

The  Voice.  Ohohey!  Obey! 

HiALTi,  xmthin. 

Is  there  a  woman's  voice  inside  the  wind? 

Thorgerd,  within. 

.  .  .  the  unclean  Crier  croaking  .  .  .  cover  your 
ears  .  .  . 

Blanid  re-enters  the  house  hurriedly; 
she  shuts  and  holts  the  door^  hardly 
knoimng  what  she  does;  she  falls  on 
her  knees  with  her  back  to  the  door, 
breathing  quickly  and  hard,  and 
swaying  backnmrd  and  forward,  her 
face  hid  in  her  hands. 
Again  and  again  a  terrible  blast  of  wind 
strains  at  the  unyielding  door. 

The  Voice,  close  at  hand. 

Open,  open;  I  cannot  open;  open. 

I  cannot  come  to  you  unless  you  open. 

Blanid,  tnuttering  behind  her  hands. 

I  will  not  go  ...  I  can  do  nothing  else  .  .  . 

It  shall  not  enter  ...  O,  it  is  in  my  heart  .  .  . 

She  totters  fearfully  to  the  door,  after  many 
hesita7it  backward  glances,  and  opens 
68 


THE     CRIER      BY     NIGHT 

it  sloivlyand  as  if  she  had  never  kncnvn 
how  to  open  it.  She  reels  against  the 
roalL  and  stands  there  motionlessty, 
clutching  it  with  fiat  hands  and  out- 
spread arms,  as  a  stooping  figure 
swathed  in  a  raifi-colouredj  rain- 
soaked  cloak  and  deep  hood  enters. 
Wisps  of  ivhite  hair  fi utter  in  the 
mouth  of  the  hood,  and  one  fiicker  of 
the  fire-light  shows  in  its  depths  a  soft, 
shrunken,  beardless  face  with  an 
almost  lipless,  sunken  mouth. 

This  Old  Strange  Man,  speaking  always  in  a 

low,  even,  mournful  voice. 
A  spirit  calling  in  an  old,  old  tongue 
Forgotten  in  lost  graves  in  lonesome  places; 
A  spirit  huddled  in  an  old,  old  heart 
Like  a  blind  crone  crouched  o'er  a  long-dead  fire ; 
A  spirit  shrinking  in  the  old,  old  hills. 
Dreading  to  step  down  water  or  hollow  night : 
Some  seek  me  dreaming  one  last  hope  of  joy ; 
Some  have  been   made  too  wise   by  too    much 

joy 
And  seek  me  longing  for  deeper  misery, 
Knowing  that  joy  is  weary  in  unending. 
Changeless  and  one  and  easy  in  low  perfection, 
While  misery  has  as  many  shapes  as  evil 
That  all  must  learn,  and  is  made  new  for  ever 
By  fear  of  pain  desired  for  love  of  passion  ; 
But  feel,  O  you  who  call  me  through  the  night, 
I  bring  you  neither  joy  nor  misery 
But  only  rest  so  slow  and  sad  and  sodden 
You  will  not  know  of  it — you  shall  only  rest 
And  lose  your  soul  in  my  soul  evermore. 

09 


THE     CRIER     BY     NIGHT 

Sounds  of  heavy  breathing  are  heard  from 
the  sleeping-chainher  during  liis  speak- 
ing. He  is  continually  reaching  to 
Blanid  with  his  muffled^  unseen 
handsy  but  she  holds  them  from  her  as 
continually. 

Blanid,  always  in  a7i  eager ^  suppressed  voice. 
I  have  known  joy — I  know  not  what  it  was, 
Mead-fumes  that  filled  me  cooling  to  one  drop; 
I  have  known  misery — a  self-numbed  sting 
That  showed  me  but  another  joy  to  lose; 
These  were  too  small,  I  will  have  only  rest. 
And  lose  my  soul  in  your  soul  evermore. 
But  if  I  die  into  your  drooping  limbs 
I  must  be  mingled  there  with  him  I  love; 
You  may  not  reach  him  by  your  hoary  crying. 
But  raise  some  human  wail  for  help  and  light 
And  he  will  come  and  I  must  follow  him 
Past  where  the  imaged  moon  shakes  like  a  soul 
Pausing  in  death  between  two  unknown  worlds. 

The  Old  Man. 

A  sign,  a  plighting,  and  I  do  your  will. 

Blanid,  winding  her  arms  about  his  arms  from 
one  side,  so  that  he  cannot  touch  her,  and  bury- 
ing her  face  in  his  hood. 

Kisses.  'Hast  drained  my  soul's  blood  in  each 
kiss. 

The  Old  Man. 

I  ^o,  I  go;  make  me  not  come  again, 
For  I  am  in  you,  you  must  melt  to  me 
Past  where  the  imaged  dark  shuts  bending  lovers' 
Close,  unseen-imaged  faces  within  life  .  .  . 

70 


THE     CRIER     BY     NIGHT 

Keeping  his  face  turned  toward  Blanid, 
he  recedes  to  the  door^  -where  he  ceases 
to  be  seen  in  the  wind  that  scurries 
past. 

The  Voice,  immediately  and  far  away. 

Help;  help;  the  marsh-lights 'wilder  us!  Aligiit! 
Blanid  shuts  t/ie  door.  The  fire  has  now 
sunk  so  low  tJuit  as  she  crosses  the 
house  she  is  only  visible  in  the  half- 
dark  as  a  dim  shape.  She  pauses  by 
the  hearth. 

Blanid. 

Nay,  but  I  touch  toward  my  joy  at  last, 

And  Christ  and  all  His  Saints  go  out  like  candles 

When  mass  issaid  and  the  priest's  cup  iswiped  .  .  . 

The  Voice. 

The  water  laps  our  waists!  Help,  help!  A  light! 

Blanid,  running  to  the  sleeping-chamber  door. 
Master,  I  hear  a  calling  .  .  . 

After  an  interval  she  strikes  the  door, 
crying  loudly. 

Master!  Master! 

HiALTi,  within. 

Has  the  flood  washed  into  the  shippon? 

Blanid.  Nay; 

There  is  a  pitiful  shrieking  in  the  dark. 

HiALTi,  xoithin. 

It  is  the  Crier;  break  sleep  no  more  for  that. 

■/I 


THE     CRIER     BY     NIGHT 

Thorgerd,  within. 

The    ox-goad    shall    reward    you    when    dawn 

comes  .  .  . 
Wake  us  once  more  and  you  shall  waken  often, 
Ay,  very  often,  until  you  dread  to  sleep  .  .  . 

Blanid. 

I  heard  that  trailing  cry  like  maddened  fir-boughs ; 

Now  I  hear  words — is  there  a  woman's  wail? 

Thorgerd,  imthin. 

A  woman?  Let  her  drown. 

HiALTi,  imthin.  I  come.    I  come. 

Reach  down   the  lantern  and  light  it,   light  it, 
light  it. 

Standing  on  a  stool,  Blanid  lifts  a  lantern 
from  a  nail  in  one  of  the  beams  and, 
carrying  it  to  the  hearth,  kneels  there 
and  seeks  to  light  it  with  an  ember. 

Thorgerd,  within. 

You  shall  not  ^o\  it  is  a  lie  of  hers; 

You  shall  not  ^o  .  .  . 

A  brief  struggle  in  the  sleeping-chamber  is 
heard. 

HiALTi,  within.        So;  stand  you  from  the  door. 
Get  donned;  make  up  the  fire;  have  water  boiling; 
And  send  the  wench  to  lie  in  your  warm  form 
Ready  to  cherish  what  stiffening  thing  I  bring. 

Blanid,  to  herself,  lighting  the  lantern  and  smiling 

m  isch  ievo  usly . 
Yea,  I  shall  cherish  a  stiffening  thing  for  her. 

72 


THE     CRIER     BY     NIGHT 

Lantern,  you  are  as  dim  as  a  little  soul, 

Yet  the  least  soul  can  light  a  man  to  Heaven, 

And  you  might  lead  him  home;  but  I  am  like 

God, 
Who  makes  souls    from    His  aches — I  will  not 

ache, 
You  shall  not  have  a  soul,  I  suck  it  back. 

She  extinguishes  the  light.  H  i  alti  hurries 
in  half-dressed, 

HiALTI. 

Canst  find  a  rope? 

Blanid,  pointing.      Behind  the  settle  there. 

To  herself. 
'Tis  a  good  rope  and  has  two  rotten  strands; 
'Twas  meant  to  make  good  tinder  ow  the  morrow. 

Thk  Voice. 

Help;    help!    A  light!    Come   for  the  woman's 
sake! 

HiALTi,  holding  out  his  hand  for  the  lantern. 
Hearken  and  haste;  give  me  the  lantern — now! 

Blanid. 

Master,  it  will  not  light  .  .  . 

HiALTi.  Will  the  storm  pause? 

The  Voice. 

Ohohey!   Ohohey! 

HiALTI. 

Will  that  dark  Crier  linger?    I  must  go. 


THE     CRIER     BY     NIGHT 

She  catches  his  outstretched  hand  and 
kisses  it  ere,  snatching  it  away,  he 
flings  the  house  door  wide  open  and 
dashes  outside.  Soon  the  sound  of 
his  footsteps  is  lost  in  the  storm. 

Blanid,  relighting  the  lantern  and  starting  tip. 
Master,  Master,  the  light! 

Pausing  and  sending  the  lantern  crash- 
ing on  the  hearth  zvith  both  hands. 
He  shall  not  have  it! 
She  stands  with  her  hands  gripping  her 
breasts,  leaning  forward  toward  the 
open  door;  he?  breathlessness  is  all 
that  is  heard;  she  stretches  her  arms 
to  the  night. 

Blanid. 

I  feel  as  if  my  long,  long  hands  could  reach 

Down  to  the  water's  heart  to  pluck  him  from  it. 

The  Voice. 

Will  no  one  ever  come? 

HiALTi,  out  of  doors.  I  come;  I  am  nigh. 

Blanid. 

Ay,  he  is  nigh;  but  soon  he  will  be  far. 

I  dare  not  thus  fall  through  the  world  for  him. 

O,  I  shall  hear  him  ...  do  not  let  me  hear  him  .  .  . 

She  throws  lierself  on  her  face  on  the  floor 

and,   covering   her    head    with    the 

stretmi  rushes  and  clasping  her  hands 

over  them,  lies  there  moaning. 

74 


THE     CRIER     BY     NIGHT 

HiALTi,  far  off,  shouting  ever  more  madly. 
Thorgerd,  Thorgerd  .   .   .  your  hands  .   .   .  the 

world  slips  past  me  ... 
Save  .   .    .    under  .   .   .   under  .   .   .   under  .   .   . 

Aa — h  .  .  . 

The  shouting  ceases  suddenly  at  its  height. 

Blanid,  muffled  and  choking. 

Her  name  .  .  .  her  name  .   .  .  why  did  he  not 

think  my  name?  .   .   . 
But  she  has  lost  him,  and  I  kissed  his  hand  .  .  . 

Thorgerd,  rushing  from  the  sleeping-chamber  in 

her  night-gear. 
Where  is  the  wench?.  .  Makehaste — another  light: 
I  heard  him  dying.    O,  this  prater's  breath 
Will  blow  his  life  out  .    .    .    Kindle  a  light  and 

come  .  .  . 

Th?:  Voice. 

Obey!  Ohohey!  Obey! 

Blanid. 

Nay!  Nay!  Nay!  I  dare  not,  I  dare  not  .  .  . 

That  Crier  will  drown  me  too  .  .  . 

Thorgerd.  That  is  nought  to  me; 

Get  to  your  feet  .  .  .  What,  shall  I  seek  a  way 
To  supple  you? 

Blanid.  O,  do  not  hurt  me  again  .  .  . 

He  dies  ...  it  is  my  deed  ...  I  dare  not  come  .  .  . 

Thorgerd. 

You  are  too  mean  to  stir  bis  life  one  thought; 

It  was  the  Crafty  Crier — I  heard  that  wail  .  .  . 

75 


THE     CRIER      BY     NIGHT 

The  fire  is  now  wholly  out^  so  that  the 
cottage  is  absolutely  dark  and  nothing 
is  visible. 

The  Voice,  near  at  hand, 
Ohohey!  Obey! 

Thorgerd,  fiercely. 

Where  are  you?  .    .    .    O,  the  Crier  is  heaving 
o'er  .  .  . 

A  gust  of  wind  and  rain  is  heard  to  s%veep 
into  the  cottage  through  the  open  door- 
way, shifting  the  rustling  floor-rushes 
as  though  feet  touched  them.  The 
Old  Strange  Man  has  entered. 

Blanid,  being  heard  to  start  to  her  feet. 
There  is  another  breathing  in  the  bouse  .  .  . 
He  is  here  .  .  .  this  darkness  is  not  black  enough, 
The  darkness  at  Hgbt's  core  alonecould  bide  me. . . 
Grope    for    my    hand — hold    fast    and    take    me 
home  .  .  . 

She  is  heard  to  sink  to  the  floor  again. 

The  Old  Strange  Man. 

Sister  of  that  old  race  dead  in  the  hills, 

Why  will  you  make  me  come  to  you  once  more? 

You  know  you  must  go  down  a  long  withdrawing 

To  reach  the  unlit  places  of  your  heart. 

Which  are  the  night  within  my  unknown  eyes 

Beyond  all  stars;  so  let  me  touch  you  once. 

Blanid  is  heard  to  drag  her  prostrate  body 
through  the  rushes  toward  Thorgerd. 
Blanid. 

Mistress,  I   am  your  thrall;  you  will  keep  your 
own  .  .  . 

76 


THE     CRIKR     BY     NIGHT 

I  clasp  your  feet,  I  kiss  your  clutching  feet, 
I  lick  your  feet  all  over  with  my  tongue, 
I  will  tell  you  somewhat  that  will  yield  avengeance 
For  you  to  work;  so  do  not  let  me  go  .  .  . 

The  Old  Man. 

I  see  you,  you  white  terror  with  shaking  flanks, 
Straining  to  feel  me  with  your  hard-shut  eyes, 
But  now  I  need  you  not;  not  yet;  not  yet. 
Your  man  is  drowned  and  this  is  it  who  bargained 
Its  death  for  his;  will  you  not  give  it  to  me? 

Thorgkrd,  laughing. 

I  am  glad  he  is  dead;  now  I  may  only  love  him, 

And  know  no  more  that  last  distress  of  stooping 

So  far  from  me  as  this  at  my  feet  must  be. 

No  vengeancing  could  pay  for  thoughts  of  her: 

I  will  not  know  that  such  can  be  in  life. 

So  I  will  neither  yield  nor  succour  her. 

She  speaks  no  more,  nor  moves. 

The  Old  Man. 

Give  it  to  me;  it  is  mine,  give  it  to  me; 

I  cannot  take  it  while  it  touches  you. 

A  silence. 
Blanid. 

I  have  slain  him  and  I  fear  to  go  to  him  .  .  . 
Put  out  my  eyes,  and  rope  me  with  the  dogs — 
Nay,  strangle  me  to-morrow ;  but  save  me  now. 

The  Old   Man,  his  voice  growing  fainter  and 

fainter. 
Ah,  come,  you  daughter  of  an  ancient  earth. 
Come  down  among  the  folk  your  heart  can  know. 
You  darling  of  the  past,  you  long-dead  queen. 
Your  aged  soul  is  strange  among  these  men, 

77 


THE     CRIER     BY     NIGHT 

As  strange  as  it  would  be  in  Paradise; 
But  once  I  knew  you  ere  you  were  begot, 
And  in  the  unchanging  silence  of  my  heart 
There  waits  a  star  for  you  to  finish  it. 

A  si/ence. 
You  little  trembler  of  a  dew-drop  dawn, 
You  are  as  old  as  water  that  makes  new  dew; 
And  when  the  dew  falls  it  runs  down  to  peace. 
The  end  of  sorrow  is  in  sorrow's  heart 
With  those  who  loved  and  knew  the  unknown  end 
Of  mothering  you  a  thousand  years  ago. 
Come,  then,  from  her  who  shapes  new  pangs  for 

you, 
And  rest  and  rest  and  rest  for  evermore. 

A  silence. 
One  day  you  will  awake  and  call  to  me; 
And  I  shall  listen  for  the  doubting  cry 
Until  the  stars  have  worn  the  sky  too  thin. 
And  I  am  drowned  within  the  light  beyond  .  .  . 
His  voice  is  lost  in  the  gradual  "mail  of  a 
gust  of  wind;  then  it  is  heard  ontside 
and  afar. 
Obey! 

Blanid,  speaking  at  longer  and  longer  intervals. 
O,  you  have  saved  me  from  such  evil  things 
As  writhed  like  tangled  tree-roots  outside  space 
Ere  God  made  Himself  from  them;  and  for  this 
My  Virgin  shall  reach  down  from  God's  two  knees 
Whereon  She  sits,  and  kiss  you  for  Her  own. 
My  body  was  yours;  now  you  have  saved  my  soul 
My  soul  is  utterly  yours  to  serve  in  living. 
To  clothe  your  soul  and  be  your  very  heart 
In  love  and  soft,  unconscious  giving  of  life. 
Mother,  I  have  done  evil — punish  me; 

78 


THE     CRIER     BY      NIGHT 

Because  we  loved  him,  love  me  and  punish  me: 
I  have  sinned,  I  have  parted  lovers — be  cruel  to  me 
And  cleanse  mc  that  I  may  keep  near  you  two  .  .  . 
Think  in  how  many  ways  you  can  torture  me; 
Let  me  rake  up  the  fire  and  heat  an  iron 
For  you  to  have  your  will  upon  my  body — 
One  thigh   is  yet  unseared   .    .   .    Will  you  not 

speak?  .  .  . 
I  love  him,  I  tell  you  ...  I  love  him,  I  love  him, 

I  love  him  .  .  . 
I   kissed  his  hand;    do  you  hear?    I  kissed   his 

hand — 
Our  Hialti's  hand  .  .  .  I'll  make  you  hurt  me  yet. 
Cold  anger  is  shuddering  down  your  tense  thighs ; 
Feel,  this  is  your  foot  upon  my  upturned  face, 
I  lift  it  across  my  eyes,  wide-open  eyes — 
Bear  down  and  crush  them  full  of  eternal  night .  .  . 
Speak  to  me  now  .  .  .  O,  will  you  never  speak? 
You  thrust  me  down  into  that  Crier's  bosom ; 
For  in  your  heart  you  make  me  be  unborn 
Within  a  lonely  place  you  never  heard  of, 
Yet  if  I  loose  your  feet  he  will  return 
And    I   must  follow  and  follow  and  follow  and 

follow 
Past  where  my  imaged  thoughts  repeat  the  world, 
Till  shattered  waters  break  the  imaged  dream  .  .  . 
You  saved  me  once;  will  you  undo  that  great- 
ness? .  .  . 
We  are  the  tears  that  God  wipes  from  His  eyes: 
Lone    thoughts  will    thrust  me    forth — save  me 

from  them  ... 
Ah,  but  my  lonely  love  can  succour  me: 
Think,  if  I  drown,  'tis  to  my  Hialti's  arms. 
To  cast  you  from  his  heart  for  ever  more; 
He  will  not  even  know  you  are  forgotten  .  .  . 

79 


THE     CRIER     BY     NIGHT 

Sister Thorgerd 

Thorgerd  draws  in  a  long  breath  so 
sharply  that  it  sounds  to  stab  her  re- 
peatedly. 

Ay,  you  will  hate  me  as  you  used  to  do — 

Will  you  not  hate  me  as  you  used  to  do? 

I  was  so  happy  when  you  still  could  hate  me  .  .  . 

I  fear  it,  but  you  make  me  ^o  .  .  .  Speak  once  .  .  . 
After  a  long  silefice  Blanid  is  heard  to 
rise  and  go  slowly  to  the  door. 

Blanid. 
Ohey!  Ohey! 

The  Voice,  outside.  Ohohey! 

With  a  laugh  of  abandonment  Blanid  is 
heard  to  run  into  the  night;  there  is 
a  brief  silence ;  then  one  far-off ,  long 
shriek  is  heard  from  her. 

The  Voice. 
Ohey!  Ohohey! 

In  the  cottage  Thorgerd  is  heard  to  fall 

heavily  to  the  floor. 
The  curtain  descends  on  silence  and  dark- 
ness. 


80 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND 


Si 


10  EDWARD  THOMAS 

T  J  ERE  in  the  North  ive  speak  of  you, 
IJ.  And  dream  {and  7uish  the  dream  were  true) 
That  when  the  evening  has  grown  late 
You  will  appear  outside  our  gate — 
As  though  some  Gipsy-Scholar  yet 
Sottghf  this  far  place  that  men  forget; 
Or  some  tall  hero  still  unknown, 
Out  of  the  Mahinogion, 
Were  seen  at  nightfall  looking  in, 
Passing  mysteriously  to  %vin 
His  earlier  earth,  his  ancient  mind. 
Where  man  ivas  true  and  life  more  kind 
Lived  with  the  mountains  and  the  trees 
A  nd  other  steadfast  presences, 
Where  large  and  simple  passions  gave 
The  insight  and  the  peace  we  crave. 
And  he  no  more  had  nigh  forgot 
The  old  high  battles  he  had  fought. 

Ah,  pause  to-night  outside  uxir gale 
And  enter  ere  it  is  too  late 
To  see  the  garden^ s  deep  on  deep 
A  nd  talk  a  little  ere  we  sleep. 

When  you  were  here  a  year  ago 
I  told  you  of  a  glorioles  woe. 
The  ancient  zvoe  of  Gunnar  dead 
And  its  proud  train  of  men  long  sped, 
Fit  brothers  to  your  noble  thoughts ; 
Then,  as  their  shouts  and  Gunnar'' s  shouts 
Went  down  once  more  undyingly 
And  the  fierce  saga  was  put  by, 
I  told  you  of  my  old  desire 
To  light  again  that  bygone  fire. 
To  body  Hallgerd's  ruinous 
Great  hair  and  wrangling  mouth  for  us, 

82 


And  hear  her  voice  deny  again 
That  hair  to  Gunnar  in  his  pain. 

Because  your  heart  could  understand 
The  hopes  of  their  primeval  land, 
The  hearts  of  dim  heroic  forms 
Made  clear  by  tenderness  and  storms, 
You  caught  my gloiv  and  urged  me  on; 
So  7107V  the  tale  is  once  more  done 
I  turn  to  you,  I  bring  my  play. 
Longing,  O  friend,  to  hear  you  say 
I  have  not  d-cvarfed  those  olden  things 
Nor  tarnisht  by  my  furbishings. 

I  bring  my  play,  I  turn  to  you 
And  7vish  it  might  to-night  be  true 
That  you  7Vould  seek  this  old  small  house 
TTvixt  laurel  boughs  and  apple  boughs ; 
Then  I  7vould give  it,  bravely  manned. 
To  you,  and  with  my  play  my  hand. 

30  June  igo8. 


I.  M. 

2ND   Lieut.    Philip    Edward   Thomas 

244tli  Sicf^e  Buttery,  Royal  Garrison  Artillery ; 

killed  at  a  forward  observation  post  in  the 

battle  of  Arras,  on  Easter  Mondiiy, 

April  9th,  1917. 


83 


PERSONS: 

GUNNAR  HaMUNDSSON. 

Hallgerd  Longcoat,  his  wife. 

Rannveig,  his  mother. 

Oddny,    Astrid,    and    Steinvor,     Hallgerd's 

house-women. 
Ormild,  a  woman  thrall. 

Biartey,  Jofrid,  and  Gudfinn,  beggar-women. 
GizuR  the  White,  Mord  Valgardsson,  Thor- 

GRIM  THE  EaSTERLING,  ThORBRAND  ThOR- 

LEIKSSON  and  AsBRANDhisbrother,  Aunund, 
Thorgeh^  and  Hroald,  riders. 
Many  other  Riders  and  voices  of  Riders. 

In  Iceland,  a.d.  990. 


84 


THE    RIDING   TO    LITHEND 

The  scene  is  the  hall  of  Gunnm's  house  at  Lithend 
in  SoiitJi  Iceland.  The  portion  slie^mi  is  set  on 
the  stage  diagonally,  so  that  to  the  right  one 
end  is  seen  •while,  from  the  rear  corner  of  this, 
one  side  runs  down  almost  to  the  left  front. 

The  side  7vall  is  lozv  and  wainscotted  imth 
canned  panelling  on  ivhich  hang  weapons, 
shields,  and  coats  of  mail.  In  one  place  a  panel 
slid  aside  she7vs  a  shut  bed. 

In  front  of  the  panelling  are  two  long  benches 
with  a  canned  high-seat  between  them.  Across 
the  end  of  the  hall  are  similar  panellings  and 
the  seats,  with  corresponding  tables,  of  the 
women's  dais;  behind  these  and  in  the  gable 
wall  is  a  high  narror'O  door  ivith  a  rounded  top, 

A  timber  roof  slopes  dozvn  to  the  side  wall 
and  is  npJield  by  cross-beams  and  two  rozvs  oj 
tall  pillars  which  make  a  rather  narrow  nave 
of  the  centre  of  the  hall.  One  of  these  ro7vs  runs 
parallel  to  the  side  wall,  the  pair  of  pillars 
before  the  high-seat  being  carved  and  ended 
with  images;  of  the  other  row  only  two  pillars 
are  visible  at  the  extreme  right. 

Within  this  nave  is  the  space  for  the  hearths; 
but  the  only  hearth  visible  is  the  one  near  the 
ivomens  dais.  In  the  roof  above  it  there  is  a 
louvre:  the  fi re  glows  and  no  smoke  rises.  Th e 
hall  is  lit  every7vhere  bv  the  firelight. 

«5  ' 


THE     RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

The  rafters  over  the  iwmen^s  dais  carry  a 
floor  at  the  level  of  the  side  walls,  forming  an 
open  loft  which  is  reached  by  a  ivide  ladder 
fixed  against  the  wall:  a  bed  is  seen  in  this 
loft.  Low  in  the  roof  at  intervals  are  shuttered 
casements,  one  being  above  the  loft:  all  the 
slw Iters  are  closed. 

Near  the  fire  a  large  shaggy  liound  is  sleep- 
ing; and  Ormild,  in  the  undyedwoolleii  dress 
of  a  thrall,  is  combing  wool. 

Oddn  Y  stands  spinning  at  the  jar  side;  near 
her  AsTRiD  and  Steinvor  sit  stitching  a  robe 
7vhich  hangs  between  them. 

ASTRID. 

NIGHT  is  a  Winter  long:  and  evening  falls. 
Night,  nightand  Winter  and  the  heavy  snow 
Burden  our  eyes,  intrude  upon  our  dreams, 
And  make  of  loneliness  an  earthly  place. 

Ormild. 

This  bragging  land  of  freedom  that  enthralls  me 

Is  still  the  fastness  of  a  secret  kiner 

Who  treads  the  dark  like  snow,  of  old  king  vSleep. 

He  works  with  night,  he  has  stolen  death's  tool 

frost 
That  makes  the  breaking  wave  forget  to  fall. 

ASTRID. 

Best  mind  thy  comb-pot  and  forget  our  king 
Before  the  Longcoat  helps  at  thy  awaking.  .  .  . 
I  like  not  this  forsaken  quiet  house. 
The  house-men  out  at  harvest  in  the  Isles 
Never  return.    Perhaps  they  went  but  now, 
Yet  I  am  sore  with  fearing  and  expecting 

86 


THE     RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

Because  they  do  not  come.    They  will  not  come. 

I  like  not  this  forsaken  quiet  house, 

This  late  last  harvest,  and  night  creeping  in. 

Oddny. 

I  like  not  dwelling  in  an  outlaw's  house. 
Snow  shall  be  heavier  upon  some  eyes 
Than  you  can  tell  of— ay,  and  unseen  earth 
Shall  keep  that  snow  from  tilling  those  poor  eyes. 
This  void  house  is  more  void  by  brooding  things 
That  do  not  happen  than  by  absent  men. 
Sometimes  when  I  awaken  in  the  night 
My  throbbing  ears  are  mocking  me  with  rumours 
Of  crackling    beams,    beams   falling,  and    loud 
flames. 

AsTRiD,  pointing  to  the  iveapons  by  the  high-seat. 
The  bill  that  Gunnar  won  in  a  far  sea-fight 
Sings  inwardly  when  battle  impends;  as  a  harp 
Replies  to  the  wind  thus  answers  it  to  fierceness. 
So  tense  its  nature  is  and  the  spell  of  its  welding; 
Then  trust  ye  well  that  while  the  bill  is  silent 
No  danger  thickens,  for  Gunnar  dies  not  singly. 

Steinvor. 

But  womenare  let  forth  freewhenmengo  burning? 

Oddny, 

Fire  is  a  hurrying  thing,  and  fire  by  night 

Can  see  its  way  better  than  men  see  theirs. 

AsTRin. 

The  land  will  not  be  nobler  or  more  holpen 
If  Gunnar  burns  and  we  go  forth  unsinged. 
Why  will  he  break  the  atonement  that  was  set? 
That  wise  old  Njal  who  has  the  second  sight 

«7 


THE     RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

Foretold  his  death  if  he  should  slay  twice  over 
In  the  same  kin  or  break  the  atonement  set: 
Yet  has  he  done  these  things  and  will  not  care. 
Kolskegg,  who  kept  his  back  in  famous  fights, 
Sailed  long  ago  and  far  away  from  us 
Because  that  doom  is  on  him  for  the  slayings; 
Yet  Gunnar  bides  although  that  doom  is  on  him 
And  he  is  outlawed  by  defiance  of  doom. 

Steinvor. 

Gunnar  has  seen  his  death:  he  is  spoken  for. 

He  would  not  sail  because,  when  he  rode  down 

Unto  the  ship,  his  horse  stumbled  and  threw  him. 

His  face  toward  the  Lithe  and  his  own  fields. 

Olaf  the  Peacock  bade  him  be  with  him 

In  his  new  mighty  house  so  carven  and  bright, 

And  leave  this  house  to  Rannveig  and  his  sons: 

He  said  that  would  be  well,  yet  never  goes. 

Is  he  not  thinking  death  would  ride  with  him? 

Did  not  Njal  offer  to  send  his  sons, 

Skarphedin  ugly  and  brave  and  Hauskuld  with 

him, 
To  hold  this  house  with  Gunnar,  who    refused 

them 
vSaying  he  would  not  lead  young  men  to  death? 
I  tell  you  Gunnar  is  done.  .  .  .  His  fetch  is  out. 

Oddxy. 

Nay,  he  's  been  topmost  in  so  many  fights 

That  he  believes  he  shall  fight  on  untouched. 

Steinvor. 

He  rides  to  motes  and  Things  before  his  foes. 
He  has  sent  his  sons  harvesting  in  the  Isles. 
He  takes  deliberate  heed  of  death — to  meet  it, 

88 


THE     RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

Like  those  whom  Odin  needs.   He  is  fey,  I  tell 

you — 
And  if  we  are  past  the  foolish  ardour  of  girls 
For  heroisms  and  profitless  loftiness 
We  shall  get  gone  when  bedtime  clears  the  house. 
'Tis  much  to  have  to  be  a  hero's  wife, 
And  I  shall  wonder  if  Hallgerd  cares  about  it: 
Yet  she  may  kindle  to  it  ere  my  heart  quickens. 
I  tell  you,  w^omen,  we  have  no  duty  here: 
Let  us  get  gone  to-night  while  there  is  time. 
And  find  new  harbouring  ere  the  laggard  dawn, 
For  death  is  making  narrow^ing  passages 
About  this  hushed  and  terrifying  house. 

Rannveig,«7z  old ivimpled woman,  enters 

as  if  from  a  door  at  the  unseen  end  of 

the  hall. 

ASTRID. 

He  is  so  great  and  manly,  our  master  Gunnar, 
There  are  not  many  ready  to  meet  his  weapons: 
And  so  there  may  not  be  much  need  of  weapons. 
He  is  so  noble  and  clear,  so  swift  and  tender. 
So  much  of  Iceland's  fame  in  foreign  places. 
That  too  many  love  him,  too  many  honour  him 
To  let  him  die,  lest  the  most  gleaming  glory 
Of  our  grey  country  should  be  there  put  out. 

Rannveig. 

My  son  has  enemies,  girl,  enemies, 
Who  will  not  lose  the  joy  of  hurting  him. 
This  little  land  is  no  more  than  a  lair 
That  holds  too  many  fiercenesses  too  straitly, 
And  no  man  will  refuse  the  rapture  of  killing 
When  outlawry  has  made  it  cheap  and  righteous. 
So  long  as  any  one  perceives  he  knows 

89 


THE    RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

A  bare  place  for  a  weapon  on  my  son 
His  hand  shall  twitch  to  fit  a  weapon  in. 
Indeed  he  shall  lose  nothing  but  his  life 
Because  a  woman  is  made  so  evil  fair, 
Wasteful  and  white  and  proud  in  harmful  acts. 
I  lose  two  sons  when  Gunnar's  eyes  are  still, 
For  then  will  Kolskegg  never  more  turn  home. .  . . 
If  Gunnar  would  but  sail  three  years  would  pass; 
Only  three  years  of  banishment  said  the  doom — 
So  few,  so  few,  for  I  can  last  ten  years 
With  this  unshrunken  body  and  steady  heart. 

{To  Ormild) 
Have  I  sat  down  in  comfort  by  the  fire 
And  waited  to  be  told  the  thing  I  knew? 
Have  any  men  come  home  to  the  young  women, 
Thinking  old  women  do  not  need  to  hear. 
That  you  can  play  at  being  a  bower-maid 
In  a  long  gown  although  no  beasts  are  foddered? 
Up,  lass,  and  get  thy  coats  about  thy  knees, 
For  we  must  cleanse  the  byre  and  heap  the  midden 
Before  the  master  knows — or  he  will  go, 
And  there  is  peril  for  him  in  every  darkness. 

Ormild,  tucking  up  her  skirfs. 

Then  are  we  out  of  peril  in  the  darkness? 

We  should  do  better  to  nail  up  the  doors 

Each  night  and  all  night  longand  sleepthrough  it. 

Giving  the  cattle  meat  and  straw  by  day. 

Oddny. 

Ay,  and  the  hungry  cattle  should  sing  us  to  sleep. 
The  others  laugli.    Ormild^^o^j-  out  to  the 
left;  Rann\'Eig  is  folloiving  her,  but 
pauses  at  the  sound  of  a  voice. 
90 


THE    RIDING    TO    LITHE  ND 

Hallgerd,  beyond  the  door  of  the  ivotnen's  dais. 
Dead  men  have  told  me  I  was  better  than  fair, 
And  for  my  face  welcomed  the  danger  of  me: 
Then  am  I  spent? 

She    enters    angrily,    looking    hackitmrd 
through  the  doonvay. 

Must  I  shut  fast  my  doors 
And  hide  myself?    Must  I  wear  up  the  rags 
Of  mortal  perished  beauty  and  be  old? 
Or  is  there  power  left  upon  my  mouth 
Like  colour,  and  lilting  of  ruin  in  my  eyes? 
Am  I  still  rare  enough  to  be  your  mate? 
Then  why  must  I  shame  at  feasts  and  bear  myself 
In  shy  ungainly  ways,  made  flushed  and  conscious 
By  squat  numl)  gestures  of  my  shapeless  head — 
Ay,  and  its  wagging  shadow — clouted  up. 
Twice  tangled  with  a  bundle  of  hot  hair. 
Like  a  thick  cot-wife's  in  the  settling  time? 
There  arc  few  women  in  the  Quarter  now 
Who  do  not  wear  a  shapely  fine-webbed  coit 
Stitched  by  dark  Irish  girls  in  Athcliath 
With  golden  flies  and  pearls  and  glinting  things: 
Even  my  daughter  lets  her  big  locks  show, 
Show  and  half  show,  from  a  hood  gentle  and  close 
That  spans  her  little  head  like  her  husband's  hand. 

GuNNAR,  entering  by  the  same  door. 
I  like  you  when  you  bear  your  head  so  high; 
Lift  but  your  heart  as  high,  you  could  get  crowned 
And  rule  a  kingdom  of  impossible  things. 
You  would  have  moon  and  sun  to  shine  together, 
Snow-flakes  to  knit  for  apples  on  bare  boughs. 
Yea,  love  to  thrive  upon  the  terms  of  hate. 
If  I  had  fared  abroad  I  should  have  found 
In  many  countries  many  marvels  for  you  — 

9' 


THE    RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

Though  not  more  comeliness  in  peopled  Rome- 

borg 
And  not  more  haughtiness  in  Mickligarth 
Nor  craftiness  in  all  the  isles  of  the  world, 
And  only  golden  coifs  in  Athcliath: 
Yet  you  were  ardent  that  I  should  not  sail, 
And  when  I  could  not  sail  you  laughed  out  loud 
And  kissed  me  home.  .  .  . 

Hallgerd,  7vho  has  been  biting  her  nails. 
And  then  .  .  .  and  doubtless  .  .  .  and  strangely  .  .  . 
And  not  more  thriftiness  in  Berirthorsknoll 
Where  Njal  saves  old  soft  sackcloth  for  his  wife. 
O,  I  must  sit  with  peasants  and  aged  women, 
And  keep  my  head  wrapped  modestly  and  seemly ; 

She  turns  to  Rannveig. 
I  must  be  humble — as  one  who  lives  on  others. 
She  snatches  off  her  immple^  slipping  her 
gold  circlet  as  she  does  so,  and  loosens 
her  hair. 
Unless  I  may  be  hooded  delicately 
And  use  the  adornment  noble  women  use 
I'll  mock  you  with  my  flown  young  widowhood, 
Letting  my  hair  go  loose  past  either  cheek 
In  two  bright  clouds  and  drop  beyond  my  bosom. 
Turning  the  waving  ends  under  my  girdle 
As  young  glad  widows  do,  and  as  I  did 
Ere  ever  you  saw  me — ay,  and  when  you  found 

me 
And  met  me  as  a  king  meets  a  queen 
In  the  undying  light  of  a  summer  night 
With  burning   robes  and  glances — stirring  the 
heart  with  scarlet. 

SJie  lacks  the  long  ends  of  her  hair  under 
her  girdle. 
92 


THE     RIDING    TO     L  1  T  H  K  NM:) 

Rannveig. 

You  have  cast  the  head-ring  of  the  nobly  nurtured, 

Being  eager  for  a  bold  uncovered  head. 

You  are  conversant  with  a  widow's  fancies.  .  .  . 

Ay,  you  are  ready  with  your  widowhood: 

Two  men  have  had  you,  chilled  their  bosoms  with 

you, 
And  trusted  that  they  held  a  precious  thing — 
Yet  your  mean  passionate  wastefulness  poured  out 
Their  lives  for  joy  of  seeing  something  done  with. 
Cannot  you  wait  this  time?    'Twill  not  be  long. 

Hallgerd. 

I  am  a  hazardous  desirable  thing, 

A  warm  unsounded  peril,  a  flashing  mischief, 

A  divine  malice,  a  disquieting  voice: 

Thus  I  was  shapen,  and  it  is  my  pride 

To  nourish  all  the  fires  that  mingled  me. 

I  am  not  long  moved,  I  do  not  mar  my  face. 

Though  men  have  sunk  in  me  as  in  a  quicksand. 

Well,  death  is  terrible.    Was  I  not  worth  it? 

Does  not  the  light  change  on  me  as  I  breathe? 

Could  I  not  take  the  hearts  of  generations. 

Walking  among  their  dreams?  O,  1  have  might, 

Although  it  drives  me  too  and  is  not  my  own 

deed.  .  .  . 
And  Gunnar  is  great,  or  he  had  died  long  since. 
It  is  my  joy  that  Gunnar  stays  with  me : 
Indeed  the  offence  is  theirs  who  hunted  him, 
His  banishment  is  not  just;  his  wrongs  increase, 
His  honour  and  his  following  shall  increase 
If  he  is  steadfast  for  his  blamelessness. 

Rannveig. 

Law  is  not  justice,  but  the  sacrifice 

93 


THE    RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

Of  singular  virtues  to  the  dull  world's  ease  of 

mind ; 
It  measures  men  by  the  most  vicious  men; 
It  is  a  bargaining  with  vanities, 
Lest  too  much  right  should  make  men  hate  each 

other 
And  hasten  the  last  battle  of  all  the  nations. 
Gunnar  should  have  kept  the  atonement  set, 
For  then  those  men  would  turn  to  other  quarrels. 

Gunnar. 

I  know  not  why  it  is  I  must  be  fighting. 

For  ever  fighting,  when  the  slaying  of  men 

Is  a  more  weary  and  aimless  thing  to  me 

Than  most  men  think  it  .  .  .  and  most  women  too. 

There  is  a  woman  here  who  grieves  she  loves  me, 

And  she  too  must  be  fighting  me  for  ever 

With  her  dim  ravenous  unsated  mind.  .  .  . 

Ay,  Hallgerd,  there  's  that  in  her  which  desires 

Men  to  fight  on  for  ever  because  she  lives : 

When  she  took  form  she  did  it  like  a  hunger 

To  nibble  earth's  lip  away  until  the  sea 

Poured  down  the  darkness.    Why  then  should  I 

sail 
Upon  a  voyage  that  can  end  but  here? 
She  means  that  I  shall  fight  until  I  die: 
Why  must  she  be  put  off  by  whittled  years, 
When  none  can  die  until  his  time  has  come? 

He  turns  to  the  hound  by  tJie  fire. 
Samm,  drowsy  friend,  dost  scent  a  prey  in  dreams? 
Shake  off  thy  shag  of  sleep  and  get  to  thy  watch : 
'Tis  time  to  be  our  eyes  till  the  next  light. 
Out,  out  to  the  yard,  good  Samm. 

He  goes  to  the  lefty  followed  by  the  hound. 
In    the    meantime   Hallgerd    has 

94 


THE    RIDING    TO     LriHEND 

seated  herself  in  the  high-seat  near 
the  se^ving-'ivonien ,  turning  herself 
away  and  tugging  at  a  strand  oj  her 
hairy  the  end  of  which  she  bites. 

Rannveig,  intercepting  him. 

Nay,  let  me  take  him. 
It  is  not  safe — there  may  be  men  who  hide.  .  .  . 
Hallgerd,  look  up;  call  Gunnar  to  you  there: 

Hallgkrd  is  motionless. 
Lad,  she  beckons.    I  say  you  shall  not  come. 

Gunnar,  laughing. 

Fierce  woman,  teach  me  to  be  brave  in  age. 

And  let  us  see  if  it  is  safe  for  you. 

He  leads  Rannveig  oiU,  his  Jiand  on  her 
shoidder;  the  hound  goes  with  them. 

Steinvor. 

Mistress,  my  heart  is  big  with  mutinies 

For  your  proud  sake:  does  not  your  heart  mount 

up? 
He  is  an  outlaw  now  and  could  not  hold  you 
If  you  should  choose  to  leave  him.   Is  it  not  law? 
Is  it  not  law  that  you  could  loose  this  marriage — 
Nay,  that  he  loosed  it  shamefully  years  ago 
By  a  hard  blow  that  bruised  your  innocent  cheek, 
Dishonouring  you  to  lesser  women  and  chiefs? 
See,  it  burns  up  again  at  the  stroke  of  thought. 
Come,  leave  him,  mistress;  we  will  go  with  you. 
There  is  no  woman  in  the  country  now 
Whose  name  can  kindle  men  as  yours  can  do — 
Ay,  many  would  pile  for  you  the  silks  he  grudges ; 
And  if  you  did  withdraw  your  potent  presence 
Fire  would  not  spare  this  house  so  reverently. 

95 


THE    RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

Hallgerd. 

Am  I  a  wandering  flame  that  sears  and  passes? 

We  must  bide  here,  good  vSteinvor,  and  be  quiet. 

Without  a  man  a  woman  cannot  rule, 

Nor  kill  without  a  knife;  and  where 's  the  man 

That  I  shall  put  before  this  goodly  Gunnar? 

I  will  not  be  made  less  by  a  less  man. 

There  is  no  man  so  great  as  my  man  Gunnar: 

I  have  set  men  at  him  to  show  forth  his  might; 

I  have  planned  thefts  and  breakings  of  his  word 

When  my  pent  heart  grew  sore  with  fermentation 

Of  malice  too  long  undone,  yet  could  not  stir  him. 

O,  I  will  make  a  battle  of  the  Thing, 

Where  men  vow  holy  peace,  to  magnify  him. 

Is  it  not  rare  to  sit  and  wait  o'  nights, 

Knowing  that  murderousness  may  even  now 

Be  coming  down  outside  like  second  darkness 

Because  my  man  is  greater? 

Steinvor,  shuddering.  Is  it  not  rare. 

Hallgerd. 

That  blow  upon  the  face 

So  long  ago  is  best  not  spoken  of. 

I  drave  a  thrall  to  steal  and  burn  at  Otkell's 

Who  would  not  sell  to  us  in  famine  time 

But  denied  Gunnar  as  if  he  were  suppliant: 

Then  at  our  feast  when  men  rode  from  the  Thing 

I  spread  the  stolen  food  and  Gunnar  knew. 

He  smote  me  upon  the  face  .  .  .  indeed  he  smote 

me.  .  .  . 
O,  Gunnar  smote  me  and  had  shame  of  me 
And  said  he'd  not  partake  with  any  thief; 
Although  I  stole  to  injure  his  despiser  .  .  . 
But  if  he  had  abandoned  me  as  well 

96 


THK     RIDING     TO     LITHEND 

'Tis  I  who  should  have  been  unmated  now; 
For  many  men  would  soon  have  judged  me  thief 
And  shut  me  from  this  land  imtil  I  died — 
And  then   1  should  have  lost  him.  .  .  .   Yet  he 
smote  me.  .  .  . 

ASTRID. 

He  kept  you  his — yes,  and  maybe  saved  you 
From  a  debasement  that  could  madden  or  kill, 
For  women  thieves  ere  now  have  felt  a  knife 
Severing  ear  or  nose.    And  yet  the  feud 
You    sowed    with    Otkell's   house   shall    murder 

Gunnar. 
Otkell  was  slain:  then  Gunnar's  enviers, 
Who  could  not  crush  him  under  his  own  horse 
At  the  big  horse-fight,  stirred  up  Otkell's  son 
To  avenge  his  father;  for  should  he  be  slain 
Two  in  one  stock  would  prove  old   Njal's  fore- 
telling, 
And  Gunnar's  place  be  emptied  either  way 
For  those  high  helpless  men  who  cannot  fill  it. 
O,  mistress,  you  have  hurt  us  all  in  this: 
You  have  cut  off  your  strength,  you  have  maimed 

vourself. 
You  are  losing  powerand  worship  and  men's  trust. 
When  Gunnar  dies  no  other  man  dare  take  you. 

Hallgerd. 

You  gather  poison  in  your  mouth  for  me. 

A  high-born  woman  may  handle  what  she  fancies 

Without  being  ear-pruned  like  a  pilfering  beggar. 

Look  to  your  ears  if  )'ou  touch  ought  of  mine: 

Ay,  you  shall  join  the  mumping  sisterhood 

And  tramp  and  learn  your  difference  from  me. 

She  turns  from  AsTRiD. 
Steinvor,  I  have  remembered  the  great  veil, 

97  JJ 


THE     RIDING    TO    LITHEND 

The  woven  cloud,  the  tissue  of  gold  and  garlands, 
That  Gunnar  took  from  some  outlandish  ship 
And  deemed  a  thingfrom  Greekland  or  from  Hind : 
Fetch  it  from  the  ambry  in  the  bower. 

Stein\'OK  goes  out  by  the  dais  door. 

ASTRID. 

Mistress,  indeed  you  are  a  cherished  woman. 
That  veil  is  worth  a  lifetime's  weight  of  coifs: 
I  have  heard  a  queen  offered  her  daughter  for  it, 
But  Gunnar  said  it  should  come  home  and  wait — 
And  then  gave  it  to  you.    The  half  of  Iceland 
Tells  fabulous  legends  of  a  fabulous  thing. 
Yet  never  saw  it:  I  know  they  never  saw  it. 
For  ere  it  reached  the  ambry  I  came  on  it 
Tumbled  in  the  loft  with  ragged  kirtles. 

Hallgerd. 

What,  are  you  there  again?  Let  Gunnar  alone. 
Steinvor    enters   with   the    veil  folded. 
Hallgerd   takes  it  with  one  hand 
and  shakes  it  into  a  heap. 
This  is  the  cloth.    He  brought  it  out  at  night, 
In  the  first  hour  that  we  were  left  together, 
And  begged  of  me  to  wear  it  at  high  feasts 
And  more  outshine  all  women  of  my  time: 
He  shaped  it  to  my  head  with  my  gold  circlet. 
Saying    my    hair    smouldered    like    Rhine-fire 

through. 
He  let  it  fall  about  my  neck  and  fall 
About  my  shoulders,  mingle  with  my  skirts 
And  billow  in  the  draught  along  the  floor. 

She  rises  and  holds  the  veil  behind  her  head. 
I  know  I  dazzled  as  if  I  entered  in 
And  walked  upon  a  windy  sunset  and  drank  it, 

98 


THE     RIDING    TO     LIT  H  END 

Yet  must  I  stammer  at  such  strange  uncouth- 

ness 
And  tear  it  from  me,  tangling  my  arms  in  it — 
I  could  not  so  befool  myself  and  seem 
A  laughable  bundle  in  each  woman's  eyes, 
Wearing  such  things  as  no  one  ever  wore, 
Useless  ...   no  head-cloth  .   .   .  too  unlike  my 

fellows. 
Yet  he  turns  miser  for  a  tiny  coif. 
It  would  cut  into  many  golden  coifs 
And  dim  some  women  in  their  Irish  clouts — 
But  no;  I'll  shape  and  stitch  it  into  shifts, 
Smirch  it  like  linen,  patch  it  with  rags,  to  watch 
His  silent  anger  when  he  sees  my  answer. 
Give  me  thy  shears,  girl  Oddny. 

Oddny.  You'll  not  part  it? 

Hallgerd. 
I'll  shorten  it. 

Oddny.  I  have  no  shears  with  me. 

Hallgerd. 

No  matter;  I  can  start  it  with  my  teeth 
And  tear  it  down  the  folds.    So.  vSo.  So.  So. 
Here  's  a  fine  shift  for  summer:  and  another. 
I'll  find  my  shears  and  chop  out  waists  and  neck- 
holes. 
Ay,  Gunnar,  Gunnar! 

S/ie  t/ifoivs  the  tisxttc  on  tJic  s^roiind,  and 
goes  out  by  tJie  dais  door. 

Oddny,  lifting  one  of  the  pieces. 

O  me!    A  wonder  has  vanished. 
99 


THE    RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

Steinvor. 

What  is  a  wonder  less?   She  has  done  finely, 
Setting    her    worth    above    dead    marvels    and 
shows.  .  .  . 

Tlie  deep  menacing  baying  of  the  liound  is 
heard  near  at  hand.  A  woman's  cry 
folloivs  it. 
They  come,  they  come !  Let  us  flee  by  the  bower ! 
Starting  up ^  slie  stumbles  in  the  tissue  and 
sinks  upon  it.    The  others  rise. 
You  are  leaving  me — will  you  not  wait  for  me — 
Take,  take  me  with  you.  .  .  . 

Mingled  cries  of  women  are  heard. 

GuNNAR,  outside.  Samm,  it  is  well:  be  still. 

Women,  be  quiet;  loose  me;  get  from  my  feet, 
Or  I  will  set  the  hound  to  wipe  me  clear.  ,  .  . 

Steinv^or,  recovering  herself. 

Women  are  sent  to  spy. 

The  sound  of  a  door  being  opened  is  heard. 
GuNNAR  enters  from  the  left^  followed 
by  three  beggar-women ^  Biartey, 
JoFRiD,  and  GuDFiNN.  They  hobble 
and  limp,  and  are  swathed  in  shape- 
less nameless  rags  which  trail  about 
their  feet;  VtiAKT^Y's  left  sleeve  is  torn 
completely  away,  leaving  her  arm  bare 
and  mud-smeared \  the  others'  skirts 
are  torn,  and  Jofrid's  gown  at  the 
neck;  Gudfinn  wears  a  felt  hood 
buttoned  under  her  chin,  the  others' 
faces  are  almost  hid  in  falling  tangles 
of  grey  hair.  Their  faces  are  shrivelled 
and  7veather-beaten,  and  Biartey's 

I  GO 


THE     RIDING    TO    LITHEND 

mouth  is  distorted  by  two  front  teeth 
that  project  like  tusks. 

GuNNAR.  Get  in  to  the  light. 

Yea,  has  he  mouthed  ye?  .   .   .   What  men  send 

ye  here? 
Who  are  ye?  Whence  come  ye?  Whatdoyeseelc? 
I  think  no  mother  ever  suckled  you : 
You  must  have  dragged  your  roots  up  in  waste 

places 
One  foot  at  once,  or  heaved  a  shoulder  up — 

BiARTEY,  interrupting  him. 

Out  of  the  bosoms  of  cairns  and  standing  stones. 
I  am  Biartey:  she  is  Jofrid:  she  is  Gudfinn: 
We  are  lone  women  known  to  no  man  now. 
We  are  not  sent:  we  come. 

GuNNAR.  Well,  you  come. 

You  appear  by  night,  rising  under  my  eyes 

Like  marshy  breath  or  shadows  on  the  wall ; 

Yet  the  hound  scented  you  like  any  evil 

That  feels  upon  the  night  for  a  way  out. 

And  do  you,  then,  indeed  wend  alone? 

Came   you  from  the  West  or  the   sky-covering 

North, 
Yet  saw  no  thin  steel  moving  in  the  dark? 

Biartey. 

Not  West,  not  North :  we  slept  upon  the  East, 

Arising  in  the  East  where  no  men  dwell. 

We  have  abided  in  the  mountain  places. 

Chanted  our  woes  among  the  black  rocks  crouch- 

Gudfinn /omj"  her  in  a  sing-soiig  utter- 
ance. 

lOl 


THE     RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

From  the  East,  from  the  East  we  drove  and  the 

wind  waved  us, 
Over  the  heaths,  over  the  barren  ashes. 
We  are  old,  our  eyes  are  old,  and  the  light  hurtsus, 
We  have  skins  on  our  eyes  that  part  alone  to  the 

star-light. 
We  stumble  about  the  night,  the  rocks  tremble 
Beneath  our  trembling  feet ;  black  sky  thickens. 
Breaks  into  clots,  and  lets  the  moon  upon  us. 

]oFRiD  joins  her  voice  to  the  voices  of  the 
other  two. 
Far  from  the  men  who  fear  us,  men  who  stone  us, 
Hiding,  hiding,  flying  whene'er  they  slumber. 
High  on  the  crags  we  pause,  over  the  moon-gulfs  ; 
Black  clouds  fall  and  leave  us  up  in  the  moon- 
depths 
Where  wind  flaps  our  hair  and  cloaks  like  fin- 
webs, 
Ay,  and  our  sleeves  that  toss  with  our  arms  and 

the  cadence 
Of   quavering    crying    among    the   threatening 

echoes. 
Then  we  spread  our  cloaks  and  leap  down  the 

rock-stairs. 
Sweeping  the  heaths  with  our  skirts,  greying  the 

dew-bloom. 
Until  we  feel  a  pool  on  the  wide  dew  stretches 
Stilled  by  the  moon  or  ruffling  like  breast-feathers. 
And,  with  grey  sleeves  cheating  the  sleepy  herons, 
Squat  among  them,  pillow  us  there  and  sleep. 
But  in  the  harder  wastes  we  stand  upright, 
Like  splintered  rain-worn  boulders  set  to  the  wind 
In  old  confederacy,  and  rest  and  sleep. 

Hallgerd's  women  are  huddled  together 
and  clasping  each  other. 
1 02 


THE    RIDING     TO     LITHEND 

Oddny. 

What  can  these  women  be  who  sleep  like  horses, 
vStanding  up  in  the  darkness.  .  .  .  What  will  they 
do.  .  .  . 

GUNNAR. 

Ye  wail  like  ravens  and  have  no  human  thoughts. 
What  do  yc  seek?    What  will  ye  here  with  us? 

BiARTKY,  as  all  three  co7ver  suddenly. 

Succour  upon  this  terrible  journeying. 

We  have  a  message  for  a  man  in  the  West, 

Sent  by  an  old  man  sitting  in  the  East. 

We  are  spent,  our  feet  are  moving  wounds,  our 

bodies 
Dream  of  themselves  and  seem  to  trail  behind  us 
Because  we  went  unfed  down  in  the  mountains. 
Feed  us  and  shelter  us  beneath  your  roof, 
And  put  us  over  the  Markfleet,  over  the  channels. 
We  are  weak  old  women  :  we  are  beseeching  you. 

GUNNAR. 

You  may  bide  here  this  night,  but  on  the  morrow 
You  shall  go  over,  for  tramping  shameless  women 
Carry  too  many  tales  from  stead  to  stead — 
And  sometimes  heavier  gear  than  breath  and  lies. 
These  women  will  tell  the  mistress  all  I  grant  you  ; 
Get  to  the  fire  until  she  shall  return. 

BlARTEY. 

Thou  art  a  merciful  man  and  we  shall  thank  thee. 

GuNNAR  goes  out  again  to  the  left. 

The  old  women  approach  the  young  ones 
gradually. 
Little  ones,  do  not  doubt  us.  Could  we  hurt  you? 
Because  we  are  ugly  must  we  be  bewitched? 


THE     RIDING    TO    LITHEND 

Steinvor. 

Nay,  but  bewitch  us. 

BiARTEY.  Not  in  a  litten  house: 

Not  ere  the  hour  when  night  turns  on  itself 
And  shakes  the  silence:  not  while  ye  wake  to- 
gether. 
Sweet  voice,  tell  us,  was  that  verily  Gunnar? 

Steinvor. 

Arrh — do  not  touch  me,  unclean  flyer-by-night: 
Have  ye  birds'  feet   to  match  such    bat-webbed 
fingers? 

BlARTEY. 

I  am  only  a  cowed  curst  woman  who  walks  with 

death ; 
I  will  crouch  here.    Tell  us,  was  it  Gunnar? 

Oddny. 

Yea,  Gunnar  surely.    Is  he  not  big  enough 

To  fit  the  songs  about  him? 

BiARTEY.  He  is  a  man. 

Why  will  his  manhood  urge  him  to  be  dead? 
We  walk  about  the  whole  old  land  at  night, 
We  enter  many  dales  and  many  halls: 
And  everywhere  is  talk  of  Gunnar's  greatness, 
His  slayings  and  his  fate  outside  the  law. 
The  last  ship  has  not  gone:  why  will  he  tarry? 

Oddny. 

He  chose  a  ship,  but  men  who  rode  with  him 
Say  that  his  horse  threw  him  upon  the  shore. 
His  face  toward  the  Lithe  and  his  own  fields; 

104 


THE     RIDING    TO    LITHEND 

As  he  arose  he  trembled  at  what  he  gazed  on 
(Although  those  men  saw  nothing  pass  or  meet 

them) 
And  said.  .  .  .  What  said  he,  girls? 

AsTRiD.  "  Fair  is  the  Lithe: 

So  fair  I  never  thought  it  was  so  fair. 
Its  corn  is  white,  its  meadows  green  after  mowing. 
1  will  ride  home  again  and  never  leave  it." 

Oddny. 

'Tis  an  unlikely  tale:  he  never  said  it. 

No  one  could  mind  such  things  in  such  an  hour. 

Plainly  he  saw  his  fetch  come  down  the  sands, 

And  knew  he  need  not  seek  another  country 

And  take  that  with  him  to  walk  upon  the  deck 

In  nierht  and  storm. 


't>* 


GuDFiNN.  He  he  he!  No  man  speaks  thus. 

JOFRID. 

No  man,  no  man :  he  must  be  doomed  somewhere. 

BlARTEY. 

Doomed  and  fey,  my  sisters.  .  .  .  We  are  too  old, 
Yet  I'd  not  marvel  if  we  outlasted  him. 
Sisters,  that  is  a  fair  fierce  girl  who  spins.  .  .  . 
My  fair  fierce  girl,  you  could  fight — but  can  you 

ride? 
Would  you  not  shout  to  be  riding  in  a  storm? 
Ah  .  .  .  h,  girls  learnt  riding  well  when  I  was  a 

girl, 
Andfoam  rides  on  the  breakers  as  I  was  taught. .  .  . 
My  fair  fierce  girl,  tell  me  your  noble  name. 

105 


THE    RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

Oddny. 

My  name  is  Oddny. 

BiARTEY.  Oddny,  when  you  are  old 

Would  you  not  be  proud  to  be  no  man's  purse- 
string, 
But  wild  and  wanderingand  friends  with  the  earth? 
Wander  with  us  and  learn  to  be  old  yet  living. 
We'd  win  fine  food  with  you  to  beg  for  us. 

Steinvor. 

Despised,    cast   out,    unclean,  and    loose    men's 
night-bird. 

Oddny. 

When  I  am  old  I  shall  be  some  man's  friend, 

And  hold  him  when  the  darkness  comes.  .  .  . 

BlARTEY. 

And  mumble  by  the  fire  and  blink.  .  .  . 
Good  Oddny,  let  me  spin  for  you  awhile. 
That  Gunnar's  house  may  profit  by  his  guesting: 
Come,  trust  me  with  your  distaff.  .  .  . 

Oddny.  Are  there  spells 

Wrought  on  a  distaff? 

Steinvor.  Only  by  the  Norns, 

And  they'll  not  sit  with  human  folk  to-night. 

Oddny. 

Then  you  may  spin  all  night  for  what  I  care; 
But  let  the  yarn  run  clean  from  knots  and  snarls, 
Or  I  shall  have  the  blame  when  you  are  gone. 

BiARTEY,  taking  the  distaff. 
Trust  well  the  aged  knowledge  of  my  hands ; 

1 06 


THE    RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

Thin  and  thin  do  I  spin,  and  the  thread  draws 

finer. 

She  sings  as  she  spins. 

They  go  by  three, 
And  the  moon  shivers; 
The  tired  waves  flee, 
The  hidden  rivers 
Also  flee. 

I  take  three  strands ; 
There  is  one  for  her. 
One  for  my  hands. 
And  one  to  stir 
For  another's  hands. 

I  twine  them  thinner. 
The  dead  wool  doubts; 
The  outer  is  inner, 
The  core  slips  out.  .  .  . 
Hallgerd   re-enters  by  the   dais   door, 
holding  a  pair  of  shears. 

Hallgkrd. 

What  are  these  women,  Oddny?  Who  let  them  in? 

BiARTEY,  who  spins  through  all  that  follows. 
Lady,  the  man  of  fame  who  is  your  man 
Gave  us  his  peace  to-night,  and  that  of  his  house. 
We  are  blown  beggars  tramping  about  the  land, 
Denied  a  home  for  our  evil  and  vagrant  hearts; 
We  sought  this  shelter  when  the  first  dew  soaked 

us, 
And  should  have  perished  by  the  giant  hound 
But  Gunnar  fought  it  with  his  eyes  and  saved  us. 
That  is  a  strange  hound,  with  a  man's  mind  in  it. 

id; 


THE     RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

Hallgerd,  seating  herself  in  the  high-seat. 
It  is  an  Irish  hound,  from  that  strange  soil 
Where  men  by  day  walk  with  unearthly  eyes 
And  cross  the  veils  of  the  air,  and  are  not  men 
But  fierce  abstractions  eating  their  own  hearts 
Impatiently  and  seeing  too  much  to  be  joyful.  .  .  . 
If  Gunnar  welcomed  ye,  ye  may  remain. 

BlARTEY. 

She  is  a  fair  free  lady,  is  she  not? 
But  that  was  to  be  looked  for  in  a  high  one 
Who  counts  among  her  fathers  the  bright  Sigurd, 
The  bane  of  Fafnir  the  Worm,  the  end  of  the  god- 
kings; 
Among  her  mothers  Brynhild,  the  lass  of  Odin, 
The  maddener  of  swords,  the  night-clouds'  rider. 
She  haskept  sweet  that  father's  loreof  bird-speech. 
She  wears  that  mother's  power  to  cheat  a  god. 
Sisters,  she  does  well  to  be  proud  .  .  . 

JOFRID  AND  GUDFINN.  Ay,  well  .   .  . 

Hallgerd,  shaping  the  tissue  with  her  shears. 

I  need  no  witch  to  tell  I  am  of  rare  seed. 

Nor  measure  my  pride  nor  praise  it.    Do  I  not 

know? 
Old  women,  ye  are  welcomed:  sit  with  us, 
And  while  we  stitch  tell  us  what  gossip  runs — 
But  if  strife  might  be  warmed  by  spreading  it. 

BlARTEY. 

Lady,  we  are  hungered ;  we  were  lost 
All  night  among  the  mountains  of  the  East ; 
Clouds  of  the  cliffs  come  down  my  eyes  again.  .  .  . 
I  pray  you  let  some  thrall  bring  us  to  food. 

1 08 


THE    RIDING    TO    LITHEND 

Hallgkrd. 

Ye  get  nought  here.  The  supper  is  long  over; 
The  women  shall  not  let  ye  know  the  food-house, 
Or  ye'll  be  thieving  in  the  night.    Ye  are  idle, 
Ye  suck  a  man's  house  bare  and  seek  another. 
'Tis   bed-time;    get   to    sleep — that   stills    much 
hunger. 

BlARTEY. 

Now  it  is  easy  to  be  seeing  what  spoils  you. 
You  were  not  grasping  or  ought  but  over  warm 
WhenSigmund,Gunnar's  kinsman,  guested  here. 
You  followed  him,  you  were  too  kind  with  him. 
You  lavished  Gunnar's  treasure  and  gear  on  him 
To  draw  him  on,  and  did  not  call  that  thieving. 
Ay,  vSigmund  took  your  feuds  on  him  and  died 
As  Gunnar  shall.   Men  have  much  harm  by  you. 

Hallgkrd. 

Now  have  I  gashed  the  golden  cloth  awry: 

'Tis  ended — a  ruin  of  clouts — the  worth  of  the 

gift- 
Bridal  dish-clouts — nay,  a  bundle  of  flame. 
I'll  burn  it  to  a  breath  of  its  old  queen's  ashes: 
Fire,  O  fire,  drink  up  .  .  . 

S/ie  //if'070s  tlie  shreds  of  the  veil  on  the 
glo-ivmg  embers:  they  waft  to  ashes 
7vith  a  brief  high  flare.    She  goes  to 

JOFRID. 

There  's  one  oi  you 
That  holds  her  head  in  a  bird's  sideways  fashion  : 
I  know  that  reach  o'  the  chin.  .  .  .  What's  under 
thy  hair? — 

She  fixes  ]o¥R\u  rvith  her  h>/ee,  and  lifts 
her  hair. 

109 


THE    RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

Pfui,  'tis  not  hair,  but  sopped  and  rotting  moss — 
A  thief,  a  thief  indeed.  .  .  .  And  twice  a  thief.  .  .  . 
She  has  no  ears.    Keep  thy  hooked  fingers  still 
While  thou  art  here,  for  if  I  miss  a  mouthful 
Thou  shalt  miss  all  thy  nose.  Get  up,  get  up; 
I'll  lodge  ye  with  the  mares.  .  .  . 

JoFRiD,  starting  up.  Three  men,  three  men. 

Three  men  have  wived  you,  and  for  all  you  gave 

them 
Paid  with  three  blows  upon  a  cheek  once  kissed — 
To  every  man  a  blow — and  the  last  blow 
All  the  land  knows  was  won  by  thieving  food.  .  . . 
Yea,  Gunnar  is  ended  by  the  theft  and  the  thief. 
Is  it  not  told  that  when  you  first  grew  tall, 
A  false  rare  girl,  Hrut  your  own  kinsman  said 
"  I    know  not  whence  thief's   eyes  entered  our 

blood." 
You  have  more  ears,  yet  are  you  not  my  sister? 
Our  evil  vagrant  heart  is  deeper  in  you. 

Hallgerd,  snatching  the  distaff  from  Biartey. 

Out  and  be  gone,  be  gone.  Lie  with  the  moun- 
tains, 

Smotheramong  the  thunder;  stale  dew  mould  you. 

Outstrip  the  hound,  or  he  shall  so  embrace 
you.  .  .  . 

Biartey. 

Now  is  all  done  ...  all  done  .  .   .  and  all  your 

deed! 
She  broke  the  thread,  and  it  shall  not  join  again. 
Spindle,  spindle,  the  coiling  weft  shall  dwindle; 
Leap  on  the  fire  and  burn,  for  all  is  done  .  .  . 

She  casts  the  spindle  upon  the  Jire,  and 
stretches  her  hands  toward  it. 

I  lO 


THE    RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

Hallgerd,  attacking  them  with  the  distafj. 
Into  the  night.  .  .  .  Dissolve.  .  .  . 

BiARTKY,  as  the  three  ntsh  toward  the  door. 

Sisters,  away: 
Leave  the  woman  to  her  smouldering"  beauty, 
Leave  the  fire  that 's  kinder  than  the  woman, 
Leave  the  roof-tree  ere  it  falls.    It  falls. 

GuDFiNNyo/V/j-Zf^r.  Each  time  Hallgerd 
flags  they  turn  as  they  chanty  and 
point  at  her. 
We  shall  cry  no  more  in  the  high  rock-places, 
We  are  gone  from  the  night,  the  winds  and  the 

clouds  are  empty: 
Soon   the   man    in    the  West  shall    receive  our 
message. 

Jofrid's  voice  joins  the  other  voices. 
Men  reject  us,  yet  their  house  is  unstable.  .  .  . 
The  slayers'  hands  are  warm — the  sound  of  their 

riding 
Reached  us  down  the  ages,  ever  approaching. 

Hallgerd,  at  the  same  time^  her  voice  high  over 

theirs. 
Pack,  ye  rag-heaps — or  I'll  unravel  you. 

The  Three,  continuously. 

House  that  spurns  us,  woe  shall  come  upon  you: 

Death    shall    hollow   you.     Now   we   curse   the 

woman — 

May  all  the  woes  smite  her  till  she  can  feel  them. 

Shall  we  not  roost  in  her  bower  vet?  Woe  !  Woe ! 

The  distaff  breaks^  and  Hallgerd  drives 

tJiem  out  with  her  hands.   Their  voices 

continue  for  a  moment  outside^  dying 

away. 

1 1 1 


THE     RIDING    TO    LITHEND 

Call  to  the  owl-friends  ....  Woe!  Woe!  Woe! 

ASTRID. 

Whence  came  these  mounds  of  dread  to  haunt 

the  night? 
It  doubles  this  disquiet  to  have  them  near  us. 

Oddny. 

They  must  be  witches — and  it  was  my  distaff — 

Will  fire  eat  through  me  .... 

Steinvor.  Or  the  Norns  themselves. 

Hallgerd. 

Or  bad  old  women  used  to  govern  by  fear. 

To  bed,  to  bed — we  are  all  up  too  late. 

Steinvor,  as  she  turns  imth  Astrid  and  Oddny 

to  the  da'i's. 
If  beds  are  made  for  sleep  we  might  sit  long. 

They  go  out  by  tJie  dais  door. 

GuNNAR,  as  he  enters  hastily  from  the  left. 
Where  are  those  women?  There's  some  secret  in 

them : 
I  have  heard  such  others  crying  down  to  them. 

Hallgerd. 

They  turned   foul-mouthed,  they  beckoned  evil 

toward  us — 
I  drove  them  forth  a  breath  ago. 

Gunnar.  Forth?  Whence? 

Hallgerd. 

By  the  great  door:  they  cried  about  the  night. 

RANNVEiG/o//o?a9  Gunnar  in. 

I  12 


THE    RIDING    TO    LITHEND 

GUNNAR. 

Nay,  but  I  entered  there  and  passed  them  not. 
Mother,  where  are  the  women? 

Rannvp:ig.  I  saw  none  come. 

GUNNAR. 

They  have  not  come,  they  have  gone. 

Rannveig.  I  crossed  the  yard, 

Hearing  a  noise,  but  a  big  bird  dropped  past. 
Beating  my  eyes;  and  then  the  yard  was  clear. 
The  deep  baying  of  the  hound  is  heard 
again. 

Gunnar. 

They  must  be  spies:  yonder  is  news  of  them. 
The  wise  hound  knew  them,  and  knewthem  again. 
The  baying  is  succeeded  by  one  wild  Iioivl. 

Nay,  nay ! 
Men  treat  thee  sorely,  Samm  my  fosterling: 
Even  by  death  thou  warnest — but  it  is  meant 
That  our  two  deaths  will  not  be  far  apart. 

Rannveig. 

Think  you  that  men  are  yonder? 

Gunnar.  Men  are  yonder. 

Rannveig. 

My  son,  my  son,  get  on  the  rattling  war-woof, 
The  old  grey  shift  of  Odin,  the  hide  of  steel. 
Handle   the  snake  with  edges,  the  fang  of  the 
rings. 

Gunnar,  going  to  the  weapons  by  the  high-seat. 
There  are  not  enough  moments  to  get  under 
That  heavy  fleece:  an  iron  hat  must  serve  .  .  . 

113  1 


THE    RIDING     TO     LITHEND 

Hallgerd. 

O   brave!    O  brave! — he'll    dare   them  with    no 
shield. 

GuNNAR,  lifting  down  the  great  bill  from  the  wall. 
Let  me  but  reach  this  haft,  I  shall  get  hold 
Of  steel  enough  to  fence  me  all  about. 

He  shakes  the  bill  above  his  head:  a  deep 

res  on  a?it  h  u  m  m  ing  folloivs . 
The  dais  door  is  throimi  open,  and  Oddny, 
AsTRiD,     and     Steinvor     stream 
through  in  their  night-clothes. 

Steinvor.     The  bill! 

Oddny.  The  bill  is  singing! 

AsTRiD  The  bill  sings! 

GuNNAR,  shaking  the  bill  again. 
Ay,  brain-biter,  waken  .  .  .  Awake  and  whisper 
Out  of  the  throat  of  dread  thy  one  brief  burden. 
Blind  art  thou,  and  thy  kiss  will  do  no  choosing: 
Worn  art  thou  to  a  hair's  grey  edge,  a  nothing 
That  slips   through    all    it  finds,  seeking    more 

nothing. 
There  is  a  time,  brain-biter,  a  time  that  comes 
When  there  shall  be  much  quietness  for  thee: 
Men  will  be  still  about  thee.    I  shall  know. 
It  is  not  yet:  the  wind  shall  hiss  at  thee  first. 
Ahui!  Leap  up,  brain-biter;  sing  again. 
Sing!  Singthy  verse  of  anger  and  feel  my  hands. 

Rannveig. 

Stand  thou,  my  Gunnar,  in  the  porch  to  meet  them, 
And  the  great  door  shall  keep  thy  back  for  thee. 

114 


THE    RIDING    TO    LITHEND 

GUNNAR. 

I  had  a  brother  there.   Brother,  where  are  you.  .  .  . 

Hallgerd. 

Nay,  nay.  Get  thou,  my  Gunnar,  to  the  loft, 
Stand  at  the  casement,  watch  them  how  they  come. 
Arrows  maybe  could  drop  on  them  from  there. 

Rannveig. 

'Tis   good:    the   woman's   cunning   for  once    is 
faithful. 

Gunnar,  turning  again  to  the  weapons. 

'Tis  good,  for  now  I  hear  a  foot  that  stumbles 

Along  the  stable-roof  against  the  hall. 

My    bow — where    is    my   bow?     Here   with    its 

arrows.  .  .  . 
Go  in  again,  you  women  on  the  dais, 
And  listen  at  the  casement  of  the  bower 
For  men  who  cross  the  yard,  and  for  their  words. 

ASTRID. 

O,  Gunnar,  we  shall  serve  you. 

AsTRiD,  Oddny,  and  Steinvor  go  out 
by  the  dais  door. 

Rannveig.  Hallgerd,  come; 

We  must  shut  fast  the  door,  bar  the  great  door. 
Or  they'll  be  in  on  us  and  murder  him. 

Hallgerd. 

Not  I :  I'd  rather  set  the  door  wide  open 
And  watch  my  Gunnar  kindling  at  the  peril. 
Keeping  them  back — shaming  men  for  ever 
Who  could  not  enter  at  a  gaping  door. 

115 


THE    RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

Rannveig. 

Bar  the  great  door,  I  say,  or  I  will  bar  it — 
Door  of  the    house   you  rule.    .   .  .    Son,    son, 
command  it. 

GuNNAR,  as  he  asce7ids  to  the  loft. 

O,  spendthrift  fire,  do  you  waft  up  again? 

Hallgerd,  what  riot  of  ruinous  chance  will  sate 

you? .  .  . 
Let  the  door  stand,  my  mother:  it  is  her  way. 

He  looks  out  of  the  casement. 
Here 's  a  red  kirtle  on  the  lower  roof. 

He  thrusts  with  the  hill  through  the  case- 
inent. 

A  Man's  Voice, /^rq^.     Is  Gunnar  within? 

Thorgrim  the  Easterling's  Voice,    near   the 
casement. 

Find  that  out  for  yourselves: 
I  am  only  sure  his  bill  is  yet  within. 

A  ?wise  of  falling  is  heard. 

Gunnar. 

The  Easterling  from  Sandgil  might  be  dying — 
He  has  gone  down  the  roof,  yet  no  feet  helped  him. 
A  shouting  of  many  men  is  heard:  Gun- 
nar starts  back  from  the  casement  as 
several  arrows  fly  in. 
Now  there  are  black  flies  biting  before  a  storm. 
I  see  men  gathering  beneath  the  cart-shed: 
Gizur  the  White  and  Geir  the  priest  are  there, 
And  a  lean  whispering  shape  that  should  be  Mord. 
I  have  a  sting  for  some  one — 

He  looses  an  arrow:  a  distant  cry  follows. 


ii6 


Valgard's  voice. 


THE    RIDING    TO    LITHEND 

A  shaft  of  theirs  is  lying  on  the  roof: 

I'll  send  it  back,  for  if  it  should  take  root 

A  hurt  from  their  own  spent  and  worthless  weapon 

Would  put  a  scorn  upon  their  tale  for  ever. 

He  leans  out  for  the  ai-row. 

Rannveig. 

Do  not,  my  son :  rouse  them  not  up  again 
When  they  are  slackening  in  their  attack. 

Hallgerd. 

Shoot,  shoot  it  out,  and  I'll  come  up  to  mock  them. 

GuNNAR,  loosing  the  arrmv. 

Hoia!  Swerve  down  upon  them,  little  hawk. 

A  shout  follows. 
Now  they  run  all  together  round  one  man : 
Now  they  murmur.  .  .  . 

A  Voice.  Close  in,  lift  bows  again  : 

He  has  no  shafts,  for  this  is  one  of  ours. 

Arroxvs  fly  in  at  the  casement. 

GUNNAR. 

Wife,  here  is  something  in  my  arm  at  last: 
The  head  is  twisted — I  must  cut  it  clear. 

Steinx'OR  throws  open  the  dais  door  and 
rushes  through  zvi'th  a  high  shriek. 

Steinvor. 

Woman,  let  us  out — help  us  out — 

The  burning  comes — they  are  calling  out  for  fire. 
She  shrieks  again.  Oudny  and  Astrid, 
7vho  have  come  behind  her,  muffle  her 
head  in  a  kirtle  and  lift  her. 


THE    RIDING    TO    LITHEND 

AsTRiD,  turning  as  they  bear  her  out. 

Fire  suffuses  only  her  cloudy  brain: 

The  flare  she  walks  in  is  on  the  other  side 

Of  her  shot  eyes.  We  heard  a  passionate  voice, 

A  shrill  unwomanish  voice  that  must  be  Mord, 

With  ''Let  us  burn  him — burn  him  house  and 

all." 
And  then  a  grave  and  trembling  voice  replied 
"  Although  my  life  hung  on  it,  it  shall  not  be." 
Again  the  cunning  fanatic  voice  went  on 
"  I  say  the  house  must  burn  above  his  head." 
And  the  unlifted  voice  "  Why  wilt  thou  speak 
Of  Avhat  none  wishes:  it  shall  never  be." 

AsTRiD  and  Oddny  disappear  with 
Steinvor. 

GUNNAR. 

To  fight  with  honest  men  is  worth  much  friend- 
ship: 
I'll  strive  with  them  again. 

He  lifts  his  bow  and  loosens  arrojvs  at  in- 
tervals while  Hallgerd  and  Rann- 
VEiG  speak. 

Hallgerd,  in  an  undertone  to  Rannveig,  looking 

out  7neanwhile  to  the  left. 

Mother,  come  here — 
Come  here  and  hearken.   Is  there  not  a  foot, 
A  stealthy  step,  a  fumbling  on  the  latch 
Of  the  great  door?   They  come,  they  come,  old 

mother: 
Are  you  not  blithe  and  thirsty,  knowing  they  come 
And  cannot  be  held  back?  Watch  and  be  secret, 
To  feel  things  pass  that  cannot  be  undone. 

ii8 


THE    RIDING    TO    LIT  H  END 

Rannveig. 

It  is  the  latch.  Cry  out,  cry  out  for  Gunnar, 
And  brin^  him  from  the  loft. 

Hallgerd.  O,  never: 

For  then  they'd  swarm  upon  him  from  the  roof. 
Leave  him  up  there  and  he  can  bay  both  armies, 
While  the  whole  dance  goes  merrily  before  us 
And  we  can  warm  our  hearts  at  such  a  flare. 

Rannveig,  turning  both  -ways^  while  Hallgerd 

watches  her  gleefully. 
Gunnar,  my  son,  my  son!   What  shall  I  do.  .  .  . 
Ormild  enters  from  the  left,  -white  and 
xvith  her  hand  to  her  side,  and  walk  ing 
as  if  she  is  sick. 

Hallgerd. 

Bah — here  's  a  bleached  assault.  .  .  . 

Rannveig.  O,  lonesome  thing. 

To  be  forgot  and  left  in  such  a  night. 

What  is  there  now — are  terrors  surging  still? 

Ormild. 

I  know  not  what  has  gone:  when  the  men  came 
I  hid  in  the  far  cowhouse.   I  think  I  swooned  .  .  . 
And  then  I  followed  the  shadow.   Who  is  dead? 

Rannveig. 

Go  to  the  bower:  the  women  will  care  for  you. 

Ormild  totters  up  the  hall  from  pillar  to 
pillar. 

Astrid,  entering  by  the  dais  door. 
Now  they  have  found  the  weather-ropes  and  lashed 
them 

119 


l^HE    RIDING    TO    LITHEND 

Over  the  carven  ends  of  the  beams  outside: 
They  bear  on  them,  they  tighten  them  with  levers, 
And  soon  they'll  tear  the  high  roof  off  the  hall. 

GUNNAR. 

Get  back  and  bolt  the  women  into  the  bower. 

AsTRiD  takes  Ormild,  who  has  just 
reached  her,  and  goes  out  with  her  by 
the  dais  door,  which  closes  after  them. 

Hallgerd,  go  in:  I  shall  be  here  thereafter. 

Hallgerd. 

I  will  not  stir.    Your  mother  had  best  go  in. 

Rannveig. 
How  shall  I  stir? 

Voices,  outside  and  gathering  volume. 

Ai  .  ,   .  Ai  .  .  .  Reach  harder  .  .  .  Ai  .  .  . 

Gunnar. 

Stand  clear,  stand  clear — it  moves. 

The  Voices.  It  moves  .  .  .  Ai,  ai  .  .  . 

_  The  whole  roof  slides  down  rumblingly, 
disappearing  with  a  crash  behind 
the  wall  of  the  house.  All  is  dark 
above.  Fine  snow  sifts  down  now  and 
then  to  the  end  of  the  play. 

Gunnar,  handling  his  bow. 

The  wind  has  changed:  'tis  coming  on  to  snow. 

The  harvesters  will  hurry  in  to-morrow. 

Thorbrand     Thorleiksson     appears 
above  the  wall-top  a  little  past  Gun- 
nar, and,  reaching  noiselessly  with  a 
sword,  cuts  Gunnar's  bowstring. 
1 20 


THE     RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

GuNNAR,  dropping  the  bow  and  seizing  his  bill. 
Ay,  Thorbrand,  is  it  thou?  That 's  a  rare  blade, 
To  shear  through  hemp  and  gut.   .  .   .   Let  your 

wife  have  it 
For  snipping  needle-yarn  ;  or  try  it  again. 

Thorbrand,  raising  his  szvord. 
I  must  be  getting  back  ere  the  snow  thickens: 
So  here  's  my  message  to  the  end — or  farther. 
Gunnar,  this  night  it  is  time  to  start  your  journey 
And  get  you  out  of  Iceland.   .   .   . 

Gunnar,  thrusting  at  Thorbrand  with  the  bill. 

I  think  it  is: 
So  you  shall  go  before  me  in  the  dark. 
Wait  for  me  when  you  find  a  quiet  shelter. 

Thorbrand  sinks  backward  from  the 
wall  and  is  heard  to  fall  farther. 
Immediately  Asbrand  Thorleiks- 
SON  starts  up  in  his  place. 

Asbrand,  striking  repeatedly  with  a  s-word. 
O,  down,  down,  down  ! 

Gunnar,  parrying  the  blows  with  the  bill. 

Ay,  Asbrand,  thou  as  well? 
Thy  brother  Thorbrand  was  up  here  but  now: 
He  has  gone  back  the  other  way,  maybe — 
Be  hasty,  or  you'll  not  come  up  with  him. 

He  thrusts  with  the  bill :  Asbrand  lifts 
a  shield  before  the  blow. 
Here  's  the  first  shield  that  I  have  seen  to-night. 
The  bill  pierces  the  shield:  Asbrand  dis- 
appears and  is  heard  to  fall.  Gunnar 
tarns  from  the  casement. 

121 


THE     RIDING    TO    LITHEND 

Hallgerd,  my  harp  that  had  but  one  long  string, 
But  one  low  song,  but  one  brief  wingy  flight, 
Is  voiceless,  for  my  bowstring  is  cut  off. 
Sever  two  locks  of  hair  for  my  sake  now, 
Spoil  those  bright  coils  of  power,  give  me  your 

hair. 
And  with  my  mother  twist  those  locks  together 
Into  a  bowstring  for  me.    Fierce  small  head. 
Thy  stinging  tresses  shall  scourge  men  forth  by 

me. 

Hallgerd. 

Does  ought  lie  on  it? 

GuNNAR.  Nought  but  my  life  lies  on  it ; 

For  they  will  never  dare  to  close  on  me 
If  I  can  keep  my  bow  bended  and  singing. 

Hallgerd,  tossing  back  her  hair. 
Then  now  I  call  to  your  mind  that  bygone  blow 
You  gave  my  face;  and  never  a  whit  do  I  care 
If  you  hold  out  a  long  time  or  a  short. 

GUNNAR. 

Every  man  who  has  trod  a  war-ship's  deck, 
And  borne  a  weapon  of  pride,  has  a  proud  heart 
And  asks  not  twice  for  any  little  thing. 
Hallgerd,  I'll  ask  no  more  from  you,  no  more. 

Rannveig,  tearing  off  her  immple. 

She  will  not  mar  her  honour  of  widowhood. 

O,  widows'  manes  are  priceless.   .  .  .  Off,  mean 

wimple — 
I  am  a  finished  widow,  why  do  you  hide  me? 
Son,  son  who  knew  my  bosom  before  hers, 

122 


THE    RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

Look  down  and  curse  for  an  unreverend  thing 
An  old  bald  woman  who  is  no  use  at  last. 
These  bleachy  threads,  these  tufts  of  death's  first 

combing, 
And  loosening  heart-strings  twisted  up  together 
Would  not  make  half  a  bowstring.    Son,  forgive 

me.  .   .   . 

GUNNAR. 

A  grasping  woman's  gold  upon  her  head 
Is  made  for  hoarding,  like  all  other  gold: 
A  spendthrift  woman's  gold  upon  her  head 
Is  made  for  spending  on  herself.    Let  be — 
She  goes  her  heart's  w^ay,  and  I  go  to  earth. 

Aunund's  liead  rises  above  the  wall  near 

GUNNAR. 

What,  are  you  there? 

AuNUND.  Yes,  Gunnar,  we  are  here. 

GuNNAR,  thrusting  imth  the  bill. 
Then  bide  you  there. 

Aunund's  headsinks:  Thorgeir's  rises 
in  the  same  place. 

How  many  heads  have  you? 

Thorgeir. 

But  half  as  many  as  the  feet  we  grow  on. 

Gunnar. 

And  I've  not  yet  used  u^^  {thrusting  again)  ^.W  my 
hands. 

As  he  thrnsts  another  lunn  rises  a  little 
farther  back,  and  leaps  past  him  into 
the  loft.    Others  follo\t\  and  Gunnar 
123 


THE     RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

is  soon  surrounded  by  many  armed 
7nen,  so  that  only  the  rising  and  fall- 
ing of  his  bill  is  seen. 
The  threshing-floor  is  full.   .   .  .   Up,  up,  brain- 
biter! 
We  work  too  late  to-night — up,  open  the  husks. 
O,  smite  and  pulse 
On  their  anvil  heads: 
The  smithy  is  full. 
There  are  shoes  to  be  made 
For  the  hoofs  of  the  steeds 
Of  the  Valkyr  girls.  .   .  . 

First  Man. 

Hack  through  the  shaft.  .  .  . 

Second  Man. 

Receive  the  blade 

In  the  breast  of  a  shield. 

And  wrench  it  round.  .   .   . 

GUNNAR. 

For  the  hoofs  of  the  steeds 
Of  the  Valkyr  girls 
Who  race  up  the  night 
To  be  first  at  our  feast, 
First  in  the  play 
With  immortal  spears 
In  deadly  holes.   .   .   . 

Third  Man. 

Try  at  his  back.   .  .   . 

Many  Voices,  shouting  in  confusion. 
Have  him  down,  .  .  .  Heels  on  the  bill.  .  .  .  Ahui, 
ahui.  .  .  .  The  bill  does  not  rise. 

124 


THE    RIDING    TO     LrFHEND 

Hroald,  'mith  the  breaking  voice  of  a  young  man^ 

high  over  all. 
Father  ...   It  is  my  blow  ...   It  is  I  who  kill 
him.  .  .  . 

The  crowd  parts,  suddenly  silent,  shoiving 

GuwsAR  fallen. 
Rannvkig  covers  her  face  with  her  hands. 

Hallgerd,   laughing  as  she  leans  forward  and 

holds  her  breasts  in  her  hands. 
O,  clear  sweet  laughter  of  my  heart,  flow  out! 
It  is  so  mighty  and  beautiful  and  blithe 
To  watch  a  man  dying — to  hover  and  watch. 

Rannveig. 

Cease:  are  you  not  immortal  in  shame  already? 

Hallgerd. 

Heroes,    what    deeds    ye  compass,    what   great 

deeds — 
One  man  has  held  ye  from  an  open  door: 
Heroes,  heroes,  are  ye  undefeated? 

GizUR,  an  old  white-bearded  man^to  the  other  riders. 
We  have  laid  low  to  earth  a  mighty  chief: 
We  have  laboured  harder  than  on  greater  deeds, 
And  maybe  won  remembrance  by  the  deeds 
Of  Gunnar  when  no  deed  of  ours  should  live; 
For  this  defence  of  his  shall  outlast  kingdoms 
And  jrather  him  fame  till  there  are  no  more  men. 


&' 


MORD. 

Come  down  and  splinter  those  old  birds  his  gods 
That  perch  upon  the  carven  high-seat  pillars; 
Wreck  every  place  his  shadow  fell  upon. 
Rive  out  his  gear,  drive  off  his  forfeit  beasts. 

125 


THE    RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

Second  Man. 
It  shall  not  be. 

Many  Men.       Never. 

GizuR.  We'll  never  do  it: 

Let  no  man  lift  a  blade  or  finger  a  clout- 
Is  not  this  Gunnar,  Gunnar,  whom  we  have  slain? 
Home,   home,    before  the  dawn    shows  all   our 
deed. 

The  riders  go  down  quickly  over  the  wall- 
top^  and  disappear. 

Hallgerd. 

Now  I  shall  close  his  nostrils  and  his  eyes, 

And  thereby  take  his  blood-feud  into  my  hands. 

Rannveig. 

If  you  do  stir  I'll  choke  you  with  your  hair. 

I  will  not  let  your  murderous  mind  be  near  him 

When  he  no  more  can  choose  and  does  not  know. 

Hallgerd. 

His  wife  I  was,  and  yet  he  never  judged  me: 
He  did  not  set  your  motherhood  between  us. 
Let  me  alone — I  stand  here  for  my  sons. 

Rannveig. 

The  wolf,  the  carrion  bird,  and  the  fair  woman 
Hurry  upon  a  corpse,  as  if  they  think 
That  all  is  left  for  them  the  grey  gods  need  not. 
She  hvines  her  hands  in  Hallgerd' s  hair 
and  draws  her  down  to  the  floor. 
O,  I  will  comb  your  hair  with  bones  and  thumbs, 
Array  these  locks  in  my  right  widow's  way, 

126 


THE    RIDING    TO    LITHEND 

And  deck  you  like  the  bed-mate  of  the  dead. 
Lie  down  upon  the  earth  as  Gunnar  lies, 
Or  I  can  never  match  him  in  your  looks 
And  whiten  you  and  make  your  heart  as  cold. 

Hallgerd. 

Mother,  what  will  you  do?  Unloose  me  now — 

Your  eyes  would  not  look  so  at  me  alone. 

Raxnveig. 

Be  still,  my  daughter  .   .  . 

Hallgerd.  And  then? 

Rannveig.  Ah,  do  not  fear— 

I  see  a  peril  nigh  and  all  its  blitheness. 

Order  your  limbs— stretch  out  your  length   of 

beauty. 
Let  down  your  hands  and  close  those  deepening 

eyes, 
Or  you  can  never  stiffen  as  you  should. 
A  murdered  man  should  have  a  murdered  wife 
When  all  his  fate  is  treasured  in  her  mouth. 
This  wifely  hair-pin  will  be  sharp  enough. 

Hallgerd,  starting  upas  Rannveig  half  loosens 

her  to  take  a  hair-pin  from  her  own  head. 
She  is  mad,  mad  .   .   .  O,  the  bower  is  barred — 
Hallgerd,  come  out,  let  mountains  cover  you  .  .  . 

S/ie  rushes  out  to  the  left. 

Rannveig,  following  her. 

The  night  take  you  indeed  .   .   . 


127 


THE    RIDING    TO     LITHEND 

GizuR  enters  from  the  left. 
GizuR.  Ay,  drive  her  out; 

For  no  man's  house  was  ever  better  by  her. 

Rannveig. 

Is  an  old  woman's  life  desired  as  well? 

GiZUR. 

We  ask  that  you  will  grant  us  earth  hereby 
Of  Gunnar's  earth,  for  two  men  dead  to-night 
To  lie  beneath  a  cairn  that  we  shall  raise. 

Rannveig. 

Only  for  two?  Take  it:  ask  more  of  me. 

I  wish  the  measure  were  for  all  of  you. 

GiZUR. 

Your  words  must  be  forgiven  you,  old  mother, 
For  none  has  had  a  greater  loss  than  yours. 
Why  would  he  set  himself  against  us  all  .  .   . 

He  goes  out. 

Rannveig. 

Gunnar,  my  son,  we  are  alone  again. 

She  goes  up  the  liall^  mounts  to  the  loft, 
and  stoops  beside  him. 
O,  they  have  hurt  you  .   .   .  but  that  is  forgot. 
Boy,  it  is  bedtime;  though  I  am  too  changed, 
And  cannot  lift  you  up  and  lay  you  in. 
You  shall  go  warm  to  bed — I'll  put  you  there. 
There  is  no  comfort  in  my  breast  to-night: 
But  close  your  eyes  beneath  my  fingers'  touch. 
Slip  your  feet  down,  and   let  me  smooth  your 
hands; 

128 


IHE    RIDING     TO     LITHEND 

Then  sleep  and  sleep.   Ay,  all  the  world  's  asleep  ; 
But  some  will  waken.  She  rises. 

You  had  a  rare  toy  when  you  were  awake — 
I'll  wipe  it  with  my  hair  .   .   .   Nay,  keep  it  so, 
The  colour  on  it  now  has  gladdened  you. 
It  shall  lie  near  you. 

S/ie  raises  the  bill:  liie  deep  hum  follows. 
No;  it  remembers  liim. 
And  other  men  shall  fall  by  it  through  Gunnar: 
The  bill,  the  bill  is  singing  .   .   .   The  bill  sings! 

She  kisses  the  7veapon,  then  shitkes  it  on 
hiirh. 


Curtain. 


129  K 


MIDSUMMER  EVE 


TO  CLINTON  BALMER 
AND  THE  DEAR  MEMORY  OF 
JAMES  HAMILTON  HAY 
FOR  THE  SUMMER  OF  igOO 
AT  CARTMEL 

/N  the  lost  Valley  all  is  still 
To-day  :  upon  the  stony  hill 
The  heat  of  the  late  afternoon 
Settles  in  coppery  haze :  and  sooti 
A  voice  not  known  to  me  ivill  call 
Silent  ohedient  coivs  to  stall, 
In  the  same  immemorial  C7y 
From  century  to  century 
Changing  hut  by  the  utteriiig  voice. 
And  in  a  7vhile  a  little  noise 
{Hou  !  Hon  !)far  off  near  Ne7vton  Head 
Will  tell  that  at  another  stead 
The  broTising  cattle  pause  and  turn 
Umvilling  heads  to  seem  to  learn 
That  which  they  hno7V,  and  move  in  train 
Now  viilking-time  has  come  again. 

In  Well  Kno7ve  garden  now,  I  know. 
Where  the  pale  larkspur  used  to  groiv 
In  the  far  nook,  a  sound  is  heard 
{If  any  is  there  to  hear  save  bird 
A  7td  field-mouse  in  the  stra7ubcrries 
Stirring  like  a  local  breeze — 
Here,  there— the  lo7v  leaves  souiidlessly)  ; 
A  glistening  slender  7vasp-like  fiy 
Is  using  7vill  and  7i'ing  to  stand 
Up07i  the  air  as  though  it  spanned 
A  chasm  with  trembling  outstretched  arms. 
And  in  the  silence  of  heat-stilled  ^arms 
132 


Anil  hi'nl-7hu'h'a  loood  that  seems  to  shake 
Dim  dolled  lea  ves  yet  does  not  break 
By  sigh  or  rustle  the  Jmsh  so  dear 
Its  tiny  sting  of  sound  sings  clear. 

Oft  have  I  heard  that  elfin  horn 

Sound  suddenly,  as  cohii'eb  torn 

Must  sound  in  startled  elfin  ears 

Pricked  and  071  edge  icith  elfin  fears  ; 

And  as  I  up'cuard  watched  those  spare 

T^vin  shreds  of  silver  like  slit  air, 

Beating  and  shining,  straight  and  tense. 

Simulating  impotence 

Of  motion,  enviously  I  thought 

"  Had  my  half  useless  fiesh  beefi  caught. 

Upborn,  and  for  all  limit  bound 

Betiveen  such  gossamers  of  sound. 

Not  thus,  not  thus  ivoiild  1  deny 

Mv  spiriCs  reach  and  endlessly 

Use  all  conception  and  aft  force 

To  limit  my  short  vital  course. 

Had  I  such  zvings  of  urgent  light 

Insistent  not  alone  on  height 

But  stretched  for  sxveep  ami  latitude 

I  would  not  evade  /light,  I  zcould 

Employ  my  heat  and  power  and  sense 

In  realising  difference. 

Ami  see  my  worhVs  variety, 

Restricted  but  by  energy.'" 

But  Well  Know e  garden  only  shines 
In  memory  now,  and  its  dear  signs 
Only  persist  and  gleam  again 
In  a  shut  chamber  of  my  brain  : 
While  in  a  distant  place  I  brood 
Upon  lost  things,  and  in  a  mood 
Of  longing  and  remembrance  feel 
TTie  wisdom  of  that  i in  mobile 


And  senseless  mote,  and  think  "  Were  I 

Carnate  in  a  slim  glisteiiinir  fly, 

I  in'ould  Jlasli  hack  upon  that  fair 

Laurel-walled  rood,  then  drop  in  air 

Till  no  translucent  nerve  should  stir 

From  strained  precision,  nor  wing  should  zvhir 

But  to  maintain  one  changeless  height. 

Nor  move  nor  waver  from  that  sight ; 

And  think  the  years  have  7iot  gone  by 

When  James  and  Clinton  harboured  nigh 

And,  worki7ig  in  another  art 

Than  mine,  yet  peopled  for  my  heart 

The  Valley  with  the  very  core 

Of  vital  beauty  for  evermore — 

So  that  when  the  air  is  still 

I  hear  below  the  meadow-rill 

Clinton  singing  softlier  still 

Entranced  by  his  own  moving  brush 

A  mong  the  stream-side  bracken  and  rush — 

Or  James  repeats  with  his  long  hand 

The  distant  line  of  hills  that  stand 

Between  the  Valley  and  the  lake 

Afidyet  seem  lovelier  for  his  sake. " 

How  many  generations  past 

Should  I  be  dead  had  I  been  cast 

In  that  small  rapid  shape  of  light? 

Though  wings  may  stand,  years  move  in  flight  ; 

And,  while  I  dream,  T  know,  I  know 

That  it  is  tiseless  I  should  go 

To  Well  Knoive  garden  again  to  see 

Things  that  cannot  return  to  me — 

fames  dead  and  Clinton  gone  away, 

And  one  whose  name  I  cannot  say 

Who  built  in  Cyclopean  sound 

Other  magic  heights  around 

That  little  place,  theti  turned  apatt. 

Untrue  to  friendship  and  to  art. 


A  man  of  nuthins^— vanished  Ihintrs, 
Dead  friends,  dead  hopes,  that  must  remain 
In  a  shut  ehamber  of  my  brain  ; 
While  only  Clinton  far  avay 
Will  in  these  verses  and  this  play 
See  that  country  of  our  youth 
A  nd  our  dead  friend  and  our  old  troth 
Of  friendship  fixed  in  amber  lii^ht, 
A  timeless  hour  that  holds  no  nii^ht. 

Summer  1 921— Sprint^  1922. 


135 


PERSONS 


Nan 

Bet 

Ursel 

Maudlin 

Lib 

RopER,  a  Carter. 

Mease,  a  Cowherd. 


■  Kitchen  and  Dairy  Girls. 


136 


MIDSUMMER    EVE 

The  scene  is  the  interior  of  an  old  bam  on  a  knoll, 
a  long  time  ago.  At  the  back  the  barn's  doors 
are  opened  iindely ;  outside,  a  road  rises  slightly 
from  left  to  right  in  front  of  the  barn;  beyond 
this  the  knoll  sinks  softly  yet  swiftly  to  a  great 
meadow,  and  thence  to  a  wide  rich  valley  of 
more  meadows  and  ever  more  meadows  with 
ancient  large  cherry  and  crab  and  sloe  and 
bullace  and  damsontrees  in  their  hedges  idience 
the  white  and  pink  thorn-blossom  clots  are  not 
quite  gone,  and  of  pastures  shaded  by  tall  clus- 
tering trees.  Afar  the  valley  ceases  in  low, 
densely  wooded  hills. 

A  late  June  twilight  is  deepening;  a  faint 
moist  heat-haze  hides  nothing,  only  distin- 
guishing the  planes  of  the  distant  trees  "with  a 
cloudy  delicacy.  There  is  no  wind,  nor  any 
movement;  one  blackbird  sings  somewhere  for 
a  little  while,  then  it  ceases  and  there  is  no 
sound  in  the  fields. 

The  whole  prospect  is  of  a  solitary ,  fruitfully 
overgroivn  valley  shut  in  from  everyivhere. 

Within  the  barn,  to  the  left,  is  a  high  hay- 
mo2v  with  a  ladder  leaning  against  it;  much 
hay  has  been  tumbled  at  its  foot  in  forking  from 
the  carts.  To  the  right  is  a  space  of  Jloor  where 
the  corn  is  lobe  heaped  in  the  ending  of  summer : 


MIDSUMMER    EVE 

as  yet ^  however,  it  is  empty  ^  save  for  a  wooden 
plough,  a  homely  rough  ivooden  roller,  wooden 
harrows,  an  uptilted,  pleasantly  shaped  cart 
whence  the  hay-shelvings  have  not  yet  been 
removed.  In  the  far  corner  of  the  bare  avails  of 
undressed  stone  at  this  side  is  an  open  door 
leading  into  a  mistal.  Presently  a  cow  is  heard 
moaning  sickly  beyond  this  door. 

The  bam  is  still  more  dim  than  the  land,  so 
that  a  stretch  of  soft  brown  darkness  is  all  that 
is  known  of  the  far-off  roof  Nearing  footfalls 
are  heard  in  the  road,  and  a  woman's  singing 
grows  clearer. 

HOU,  Hou,"  went  the  neatherd  moaning 
Down  along  by  the  pasture's  side; 
He  turned  the  cows  at  the  midden-yard  loaning, 

The  loitering  cows  in  the  brown  owl-tide: 
Pale  rose  the  last  one,  munching,  droning, 
With  wet  grass  stains  on  her  udder  and  hide. 

My  lantern's  rings  to  the  low  balks  floated 
As  Whitey's  tail  shook  the  mistal-sneck; 
When  I  laid  my  cheek  to  her  belly  spotted 

I  felt  her  honey-strong  breath  i'  my  neck. 
For  she  turns  her  head  does  the  curd-dark  throated 
To  watch  my  mouth  start  her  teats  with  a  peck. 
Nan,  Bet  and  Ursel  ascend  the  road  to 
the  left  and  enter  the  barn  as  Nan 
ceases  singing. 
They   are   white-hooded,    clumsily    shod, 
goimiless;   in   the   right  hand  Nan 
carries  a  willow  frail,  the  others  stone- 
ware greybeards ;  each  holds  several 
hay -rakes  on  her  left  shoulder. 
138 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

Uksel. 

September,  O,  September's  in  the  song — 
I  will  not  have  September  in  my  heart, 
The  ending  of  so  much  deliciousness. 
The  year's  sad  luscious  over-ripening. 
Yet  here  's  the  haysel  done  with :  how  it  hurt 
To  rake  behind  the  last  dim  cart;  and  now 
My  soul  creeps  in  me  like  the  low  pale  night- 
mist 
To  know  that  in  a  moment  past  this  moment 
We  shall  not  hear  it  slowly  any  more 
Down  in  the  lane  where,  wisping  the  close  trees, 
It  follows  us  like  a  mournful  sound  of  change. 
Although  the  Summer  is  but  newly  kindled, 
Tiptoe  I  over-reach  the  joy  of  it 
(Ah,  little  perfect  weeks  of  fruitfulness) 
Because  I  tremble  lest  it  be  slipping  past  me 
Before  my  eagerness  will  let  me  feel  it. 
Must  joy  for  me  be  ever  in  things  gone?  .  .  . 

Nan,  as  they  set  doivn  their  burdens  to  lean  the 
rakes  against  tlie  wally  idiere  four  flails  are 
hung,  on  the  left  of  the  door. 
Nay,  there  is  comfort  in  the  rainy  nights, 
The  long  moist  twilights  of  the  cider  time 
When  girls  hold  fitful  talk  sat  in  the  press-spot 
Among  the  hid  sweet  apple  heaps  that  gleam 
In  firelight  to  a  humming  out  of  doors 
Of  soddening  water  oozing  down  the  soil; 
And  there  is  comfort  too  at  Candlemas 
From  looking  through  the  casement  in  the  dark, 
The  last  thing  ere  you  chafe  your  toes  in  bed, 
On  the  crisp  quiet  of  the  woods  and  fields, 
Wondering  if  'tis  snow  or  all  the  moonlight. 
Peering  so  anxiously  along  the  wall 

139 


MIDSUMMER    EVE 

That  shades  still  ewes  and  whiter  first-dropped 

lambs.  ... 
Ay,  but  I'm  tired,  lasses,  tired  now 
Because  the  haysel's  over  and  'twas  fair 
And  the  land's  savour  wears  me  with  delight. 
I'm  for  indoors  and  resting — and,  beside, 
I'm  fainest  of  my  supper  o'  baking  days. 

Bet. 

Let  all  times  slip  to  haste  the  barley  week. 
For  then  our  nearest  dancing-time  will  ripen  .  .  . 
But  I'm  for  bed  to  get  me  doffed  and  stripped 
To  pick  muchgrass  seed  from  my  smock  and  coats. 

Ursel. 

Listen,  Bet;  no  cool  sheets  are  yours  to-night. 

The  milk-eyed  goodies  with  grey  loose-skinned 

throats. 
Who  maunder  of  rarer  girlhoods  none  can  prove, 
Tell  that  at  midnight  on  Midsummer-Eves 
They  waked    in    some    lone   shade  far  from  all 

sleepers 
To  feel  which  should  be  wedded  within  the  year; 
For  the  year's  unknown  husbands'  images 
Come  then  like  swoons  from  some  where  .  .  .  ay, 

from  some  where.  .  .  . 
Thoughts  shaping   for   their   women's   heedless 

souls. 
And  if  a  maid  will  watch  she  sees  her  own 
And  knows  her  own,  seeing  her  own  alone. 
Peering  unseen  as  breath  is  in  June  nights. 
Surely  such  dainties  filled  no  cow-slow  eyes; 
But  Nan  and  I  mean  watching  and  have  bid 
Maudlin  at  Grassgarth,  Lib  at  Appletoft 
Under  our  breath,  and  hither  they  steal  this  eve. 

140 


MIDSUMMER    EVE 

We  knew  we  must  not  tell  you  ere  the  hour, 
Or  .  .  .  or  .  .  .  too  many  hinds  might  creep  to  be 
Their  own  drowsed  leering  loutish  prophecies. 

Bet. 

Am  I  so  old  or  wistful  to  be  ringed 
That  I  must  feign  to  be  content  with  one? 
Where  is  this  moon-swayed  peeping,  then,  to  be. 
This  blest  eavesdropping  on  a  mood  of  fate? 

Nan. 

Here  in   the    barn,    where  we    may  crouch    un- 

thought-of 
By  moon-estranged  eyes  in  gradual  darkness. 
And  lest  we  startle  at  o'er-expected  footfalls 
Or  with  night-carried  voices  rouse  the  farm, 
Maudlin  and  Lib  will  warn  us  by  dove-cooings — 
Sometimes  I  hear  a  cooing  up  warm  nights 
From  dove  pairs  far  too  wise  to  be  asleep. 
But  mistress  bides  awake  for  no  such  music. 

Bet. 

Dove-cooing  Lib  will  be  a  thing  to  brood  on — 
I'll  miss  nought  here,  although  you    count   me 
least. 

Nan. 

All  works  with  us;  for  at  the  forenoon  drinking 

I  heard  dame  Stir-Wench  mutter  "These  kesh- 

pithed  lasses 
Shall  sleep  no  longer  thrce-a-bed  beneath 
The  dark  damp  closeness  of  the  garret  thatch, 
That  nigh  their  heads  leans  low  upon  the  floor. 
Until  this  heat  is  past;  or  they  will  grow 
Yet  more  slob-cheeked  and  sodden  and  dough- 
limbed — 

141 


MIDSUMMER    EVE 

I  never  saw  maids  look  more  like  green  sickness." 
And  then  she  bade  Giles  carry  our  gear  and  bed- 
ding 
Into  the  empty  meal-webbed  granary. 
Nought  could  have  fallen  better;  now  we  have 
No  moaning  ladder's  and   open   doors'    groped 

passing, 
No  stocking  feet  need  pad  the  dairy  flags; 
Only  a  silverly  weathered  latchless  board 
Keeps  out  the  bats  that  flap  toward  pale  shapes, 
And  waits  to  let  us  into  the  large  night 
Throughout  the  holiest  of  the  mothering  year. 

Bet. 

She  said  green   sickness  but  she   meant  green 

apples. 
The  codlin  tree  that  e'er  each  moonset  stretches 
A  creeping  spider-shadow  on  the  gable 
Fills  out  its  fruit  weeks  earlier  this  year. 
And  the  one  bough  with  apples  onion-roped 
Is  one  the  mended  ladder  will  not  reach ; 
It  is  weight-arched  against  our  garret  window, 
So  that  the  curled  leaves  finger  on  the  panes 
When  midnight  winds  are  sturdy  enough  to  lift  it; 
Mam  Pantry  knows  and  fears  bare  orchard-shelves 
And  herds  us  to  an  outhouse.    Girls,  those  apples 
Will  all  be  basketed  before  their  time, 
Ere  threshing  heaps  the  granary  once  more 
And  sharp  nights  make  her  yield  our  loft  again 
Because  she  finds  us  cuddled  on  its  threshold. 

Ursel. 

Mam  Patch- Waist  counts  more  eggs  than  four — 

she  knows 
Spring  wenches'  whifts  let  loose  to  sniff  the  night ; 

142 


MIDSUMMER    EVE 

So  straightway  to  the  granary  Mease  she  sped 
To  oil  the  lock  and  drive  a  staple  in. 
Small  is  our  chance  of  watching  now.  .  .  . 

Nan.  Ouick-Pattens 

Even  ere  she  rounded  must  have  been  a  likely, 
A  very  likely  maid  for  her  to  know 
Ourscapemell  moods  howe'er  weprimour  mouths. 

Bet. 

Mease  for  two  kisses  left  the  staple  loose. 

Ursel,  laughing  ivith  Nan. 

Ay,  Bet 's  the  market  woman,  to  be  sure. 

Bet. 

Mouths,  even  as  eyes,  were  made  to  earn  our  wills. 

Nan. 

But  how  came  Bet  near  Mease  up  in  the  corn-spot? 
And  if  she  knows  the  need  o'  the  staple  loose 
Why  will  she  care  to  watch  with  us  to-night? 

Bet. 

To  learn  which  one  it  is,  Nanikin  sly. 

Nan. 

Had    it    been    Mease    he'd    not    have    chaffered 

kisses.  .  .  . 
You  know  more  now  than  you  will  learn  to-night, 
You  will  wed  more  than  all  we  see  to-night — 
We  shall  win  nought  beyond  a  secret  spice 
Of  unclipt  gossip  in  a  tasty  hour.  .  .  . 

A  loitering  dull  sound  is  heard  of  cart- 
ivheels  andhorse-hooves  out  in  the  lane. 


MIDSUMMER    EVE 

Ursel. 

Hush,  Nan — here  come  the  lads.  .  .  . 

They  lift  their  burdens^  and  stand  aside 
for  the  cart  to  enter  the  ham;  hut  as 
it  comes  in  sight  it  passes  along  the 
road  from  the  left  to  the  right.  It  is 
piled  2v  it  ha  roped  load  of  hay  ;  Roger 
«;z^  Mease,  in  long  smocks  and  flap- 
ping hats,  knee-breeches  and  ribbed 
stockings,  accompany  it,  KoGERlead- 
ing  the  horse.  Mease  holding  to  the 
shelvings  behiiid  with  one  hand  and 
with  the  other  slanting  several  hay- 
forks and  a  scythe  against  his 
shoulder. 

Ursel,  continuing.        What,  Roger,  Mease  .  .  . 
Why  bring  you  not  the  cart  and  top  the  mow, 
To  feel  in  each  Hmb's  ebb  hay  harvest's  spent? 

Roger,  halting. 

As  we  trailed  up  from  Pear-tree  Dale  past  Sheep- 
mires 
Under  a  thick  dew-breath  we  seemed  to  steal 
As  'tween  chill  bed-clothes  in  December  nights; 
Into  the  load  it  soaked  two  fingers'  length. 
So  now  we  needs  must  throw  it  off  and  spread  it 
To  wait  to-morrow's  sun  out  in  the  yard 
Ere  it  is  ripe  to  top  the  sweating  stack. 

Mease. 

Moreover,  we  are  wetter  than  the  crop; 
Wherefore  be  homing,  russet-apple-faces. 
To  take  our  smocks  and  dry  them  off  while  we 
Drink  the  mulled  cider  you  are  going  to  make. 

144 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

Roger  and  Mv..\sk  go  fonvard  with  the 
hofse  and  cart  up  the  road  to  the  right. 

Urskl. 

Come,  maids,  we'd  best  get  in  ere  mistress  seeks 

us — 
Beside,  the  longer  we  do  loiter  here 
The  longer  sluili  we  hold  the  house  from  sleep; 
There's  bowl  and  bucket  rinsing  to  be  done, 
And  supper  to  set  out  if  we  would  eat  it. 
Be  neither  meek  nor  eager  in  your  toil, 
Or  Mother  Dish-Clout  in  our  gust  will  read 
Some  deed  afoot;  we'll  wrangle  sluggishly 
Until  she  drives  us  off  to  bed  unwashed. 
Then,  though  we  hear  the  lock  shoot  and  her  steps 
Sink  down  the  out-stair  as  she  dips  the  key 
Down  the  long  pocket  of  her  petticoat, 
\^o  nought  but  cast  your  shoes — there  's  but  one 

wall 
Between  her  chamber  and  the  granary — 
Lie  dim  along  the  bed,  and  never  whisper; 
But,  when  we  hear  her  bed-stocks  creak  and  know 
Her  ears  are  well  tied  up  beneath  her  night-cap. 
Out  slip  Bet's  staple  and  ourselves  as  well. 
Seek  the  pale  hollyhocks  across  the  garden 
(They  glimmer  a  little  in  all  Summer  darkness), 
And     touch     behind    the    hive-house     shadow- 
hung.   .  .   . 

Nan. 

And  in  the  barn  make  happiness  till  dawn. 

Bet. 

Dare  we  lie  still,  inside  the  dark,  and  wait 
In  such  suppression  for  such  unknown  diings? 

H5  L 


MIDSUMMER    EVE 

As  Bet  speaks  they  leave  the  barn  to  the 
right;  Nan  resumes  her  song  faintly 
and  more  faintly . 
Nan. 

Dusked  seemed  the  eve  as  the  cows  trod  in 

Under  the  roof-drip  each  to  her  staUing  ; 

Full  udders  crusht  shagged  thighs  between 

Were  warm  to  my  hands  in  the  chill  air's  palling; 

And  through  thewind's  driftingof  leaves  yet  green 

"  Hou,  hou,"  neared  the  neatherd's  calling.  .  .  . 

The  song  ceases  in  the  distance. 

Roger  turns  into  the  ham  ivith  Mease's  bundle 
of  hay- forks,  and  lays  them  in  the  empty  cart 
as  he  sings. 
I  get  no  sleep  in  lambing  nights, 
My  woman  gets  no  sleep; 

We  fold  the  ewes  if  we  sniff  a  thaw, 
And  when  they  yean  as  we  crouch  i'  their 
straw 
She  takes  the  lambs  by  our  horn-fogged  lights 
While  I  do  handle  the  sheep. 

Footsteps  are  heard  within  the  neat-house. 

Roger,  calling  through  the  neat-house  door. 
Is  the  sick  beast  grown  easier  by  now? 

Mease,  entering  from  the  neat-lioiise. 

Poor  Dapple-Back,  milk  fever's  bad  on  her. 

'Twas  her  first  calf  and  though  'twas  smoothly 

dropped 
She  could  not  gather,  but  heaped  a  shapeless  flank 
Like  a  maid  swooning;  when  the  farrier  came 
"She'll  die,  she'll  die,"  he  said.    ''She'll  not," 

said  I : 
But  nothing  served  at  first — her  slackened  fell 

146 


MIDSUMMER    EVE 

Dried  hard  and  never  any  sweat  would  stir, 
The  udder  turned  a  dull  and  shivering  white; 
Yet  now  her  ears  twitch  up  to  f^reet  my  voice, 
The  hide-hair  moistens  and  the  udder  shrinks. 
There'll  be  no  need  to  wake  with  her  to-night — 
I'll  not  unwrap  her  till  an  hour  ere  dawn. 
Come  through  and  look  at  her  as  we  wend  in.  .  .  . 
When  you  got  up  the  cider  for  the  meadows 
Was  there  a  butt  still  left? 

Roger,  as  they  jo^o  into  the  mistal  together. 

Surely  there  was; 

But  the  girls  say  she'll  make  it  wait  till  harvest. 

I  never  hired  to  any  stead  before 

Where  last  year's  cider  trickled  into  June.  .  .  . 
All  is  soundless  again  save  for  the  cow's 
tnoaning.  The  twilight  deepens  no 
farther,  and  presently  its  dead  gold 
brozvnness  becomes  cooler  in  tone;  the 
mist,  which  had  dee??  merged  in  the 
nightfall's  dimness,  imperceptibly  he- 
comes  appa rent  aga in ,  being  suffused 
by  an  oozing  of  sih^eriness  through  the 
pervading  brownness;  moon-rise  is 
evident,  although  the  moon  is  hidden 
by  the  permeating  mist  ivhich  it  fills. 
Perhaps  a  crying  of  bats  is  heard, 
but  this  is  not  certain.  An  otvl  cries 
some7vhere — probably  fro)n  one  of  the 
gable-holes,  for  it  sounds  both  inside 
and  outside  at  once ;  after  m a nv  ten- 
tative Tu-ivhits  it  laujiches  a  full 
Tu-whoo  and  swings  out  far  and  loxv 
across  the  valley:  a  chirping  of  frogs 
begins  in  the  nearest  ditches. 

H7 


MIDSUMMER    EVE 

A  closer  sound  stills  all  these,  being  evi- 
dently that  of  a  ivonian's  voice  feign- 
ing dove-notes;  it  ceases,  light  cautious 
liurried  steps  are  heard;  it  sounds 
again,  Maudlin  slips  round  the  door 
corner  to  the  left  and  enters  the  barn. 
She  is  w/iite-capped,  her  goxmi  skirt 
is  bundled  about  her  ivaist,  her 
bodice  sleeves  are  turned  back  beyond 
her  elbows. 

Maudlin. 

Nan  .  .  .   Ursel  .  .  .  Nan  .  .  .  Lib  .  .  .  Appletoft 

Lib,  hast  come? 
There  's  no  one  here — I  wish  they  might  forget 
And  sleep,  and  let  me  feel  a  little  lonely. 
I  need  much  loneliness  wherein  to  suckle 
The  sadness  that  alone  can  bring  content: 
I  am  too  burdened  by  long  laughing  days, 
And  as  I  wavered  through  this  solemn  vapour 
Of  the  worn  earth,  the  comfort-smelling  earth. 
Where  unexpected  trees  rose  wearily 
And  sank  again  like  ashen-bosomed  sighs, 
I  felt  a  new,  delighting  mournfulness 
I'hat  made  me  know  where  I  am  sensitive 
To  the  deep  things  of  life;  even  the  late  May- 
bloom, 
That  stays  the  tiringSpring  in  this  strangevalley, 
Loses  its  too  self-conscious  hope  to-night — 
The  pink  would  fain  be  white,  and  the  spent  white 
Still  foer  and  sink  to  the  moon  and  make  an  end. 
I  must  be  much  alone  in  sorrowful  nights. 
I  should  have  ease  if  Summer  would  but  go, 
Its  green-lit  glory  fail ;   I  am  so  eager 
For  overgrown  too-mellowness  loth  to  pass, 

148 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

For  dripping-  trees  o'er  soft  decaying  grass, 
Bare  orchards  and  shorn  meadows  and  stripped 

gardens, 
Brown  cloudy  woods  that  drooping  mists  make 

taller 
About  washed  fields  and  muffled  hills,  subduing 
All  to  a  low^  remote  romance  and  charm   .   .   . 
Yet  soon  with  other  maids  I  may  behold 
A  change  thatcomes  to  snirp  these  buds  in  me.  .  .  . 
She  lays  herself  on  her  back  among  the  tum- 
bled hay;  soon  she  sings  in  a  lo7v  voice. 
Fetch  the  porridge  pot  hither  to  me, 
The  porridge  pot  and  the  dairy  key, 
And  bring  me  a  clout  to  wind  my  hair 
Or  the  swarming  bees  will  tangle  there: 
They  drip  from  the  hive  in  the  orchard  long, 
And  coil  the  green-cherried  boughs  among 
As  they  follow  the  tanking  tune  I  ring 
Under  the  cherry  leaves'  shivering  .   .   . 
They   settle,    they    knit — come    Ailce   with    the 

skep — 
Step  along,  Misty  head — Smearycap,  step — 
Steady  it  while  I  draw  the  bough 
Warily  down  and  shake  it  .   .  .   Now.  .  .  . 

After  a  little  silence  she  resumes. 
The  maids  went  down  to  dip  in  the  pool 
When  the  mirrored  moon  had  cooled  the  water; 
But  they  never  told  the  farmer's  daughter. 
For  they  knew  she  would  tell  her  mother,  the 

fool. 
That  the  girls  were  out 
And  awaking  the  w^ater, 
With  never  a  clout 
Though  the  night  was  cool. 

She  hums  the  latter  melody  a  little  while. 
149 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

Without  premonition  Ursel,  Nan  and 
Bet  enter  singly  and  noiselessly  from 
the  rights  each  holding  a  hand  of 
the  o?ie  before  her.  They  are  hood- 
less^  white-capped^  and  barelegged 
now. 

Ursel,  in  a  low  voice. 

I  bade  them  hide  until  we  came.  .   .   .  Lib  .  .  . 
Maudlin.   .   .   . 

Maudlin,  sitting  up. 

Lib  is  not  here:  there's  no  one  nigh  at  all; 

And    in  the  lanes    nought    moves    but   squirrel 

whifts. 
Save  that  long  gazing  into  the  green  darkness 
Seems  to  show  boles  half  stirred  by  creeping  light 
Amid  the  darker  dark  of  trees  impending. 

Bet. 

Was  it  not  Libwhowasdew-drenched  last  harvest, 

Hid  in  a  wheat  stook  till  she  fell  asleep? 

Nan,  as  they  all  seat  themselves  by  Maudlin. 
Could  any  watch  you  as  you  slipped  away? 

Maudlin. 

Our  lambs  and  three  fat  beasts  must  take  the  road 

Ere  dawn  to  reach  the  morrow's  far-off  fair; 

So  I  said  I  would  sleep  along  the  settle 

And  set  the  hinds  their  drinking  ere  they  trudge. 

None    smelt    me,   but    I    must    start    home    by 

three.   .  .   . 
What  is  the  moaning  through  that  little  door? 

Ursel,  in  alarm. 

I  had  forgot  the  beast ;  will  Mease  sleep  with  her? 

150 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

Nan. 

When  I  came  in  to  milk  soon  after  seven 

He  said  the  deathly  loosening  was  pinched 

And  we  should   keep  her   without  more  sitting 

up.   .   .   . 
Yet — the  other  cows  pushed  in  and  nosed  her 
As  cows  will  do  to  helpless  dying  things.   .  .   . 

To  Maudlin, 
A  heifer  has  milk  fever. 

Maudlin,  rising  easterly.     Let  me  look — 

I  have  not  touched  milk  fever  once,  nor  seen  it; 

I  want  to  know  what  sense  it  can  be  like, 

I  am  made  to  know  with  what  sick  thought  it 

takes  them, 
To  watch  it  wane  and  learn  to  handle  it. 
Ah,  let  me  feel  her.  Nan,  dear  Nannie.   .  .   . 

Nan.  Nay. 

The  neat-house  door  is  open  on  her  stall 
And  hints  the  pool  out  in  the  yard  beyond 
Dreaming  a  dew-dull  wash  of  unborn  moonlight 
In  darkness  sinkingly  close  as  a  bat's  coat, 
And  the  large  stillness  of  her  weary  eyes 
Might  image  that  .   .   .  although  we  should  not 
see  her.  .  .  . 

Maudlin. 

I  know,  I  know.  .  .  .  But  we  can  shut  our  eyes — 
Nay,  fear  would  lift  them — let  us  enter  blindfold; 
My  fingers  know  just  what  they  ought  to  do. 

Bet. 

Nay,  she  might  die  ...   I  saw  a  cow  die  once: 
She  tried  to  turn  her  head  across  her  shoulder 

I  SI 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

And  looked  at  me  as  if  twas  all  my  doing, 

Then  laid  it  down  again  with  a  straight  throat ,  .  . 

I  fear  for  that  old  wrong  I  never  did.   .  .   , 

A  deep-vowed  2vomanu  heard  making  loiv 
dove-sounds. 

Comes  Lib.  .   .   . 

They  rise  to  meet  the  ?iew  co?7?er,  but  draw 
back  half  in  laughter,  half  in  uneasy 
ainazement  as  she  appears  to  the  left. 
She  is  stockifiged  and  shod,  but  her 
topmost  apparel  is  nightgown  and 
nightcap. 

Bet,  continuing. 

Lib  .  .  .  Lib  ...  is  she  asleep  or  dead? 

Lib,  entering  the  barn. 

Do  I  not  seem  the  shadow  of  a  husband? 

Am  I  too  late?  I  could  not  choose  my  coming: 

'Tis  churning  day  to-morrow,  and  nought  would 

serve 
The  old  one  but  that  we  must  scald  the  churn 
And  wipe  the  cream-pots'  lips  and  set  them  nigh 
Before  we  slept — she  was  so  cross  because 
One  cow  had  broken,  one  cast  before  its  time. 
Some  hens  had  laid  away,  farmer  had  blamed  her 
For  standing  over  us  to  make  us  strip 
The  cows  too  hard ;  so  she  was  queer  with  us. 
That  kept  us  late  from  bed,  and  when  at  last 
Our  fallen  skirts  were  cooling  on  the  floor 
I  had  to  lay  me  down  beside  Ruth 
Until  she  slept;  for  Candle-Face  tells  tales — 
'Twas  she  who  lost  us  the  low  garden-chamber 
Where  hang  the  dry  sweet  herbs,  and  earned 

instead 

152 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

One  with  a  lattice  up  against  the  stars, 
By  peaching-  of  my  chimbering  through  the  case- 
ment 
'Mid  dropping  phmis   that  night  I   went  some- 
where ; 
Rut  when  I  heard  her  wet  mouth  on  the  pillow 
I  left  her,  stuffed  my  coats  within  my  arin 
And  out  along  the  landing.    As  I  neared 
The    old    one's   chamber-door   a   warped    board 

chirped, 
My  limbs  went  loose  and  motionless  with  fear; 
On  I  slid  again  and  down  the  stairs, 
And  in  the  kitchen  found  I  had  no  raiment. 
I  dared  not  grope  for  it  nor  make  a  light; 
So  two  unmendcd  stockings  on  the  settle. 
My  shoes  upon  the  hearth,  were  all  1  had: 
But  in  the  warm  night  it  was  comforting 
To  feel  myself  half  indistinguishable 
F"rom  the  grey,  stirless  oats  I  stood  among, 
Or  the  evasive  gleams  and  thinner  places 
Of  mist-lit  woodlands,  or  from  slim  birch  boles; 
And  when  a  woman  met  me  by  the  brook 
I  was  so  pale  and  slow  she  ran  from  me. 

The   others   laugh    as  they   lead   her   to 
crouch  witJi  them  in  the  Juiy. 
Why  is  there  moaning  through  that  little  door? 

Nan. 

A  heifer  has  milk  fever.  There  is  a  silence. 

Lib,  in  a  lo7v  voice.  Women  have  that.  .  .  . 

Why  are  we  thankful  for  a  deal  of  trouble?  .   .   . 
My  sister  Jen  was  pleased  and  proud  with  herself; 
And  when  her  second  obedience  came  to  her 
She  was  well  eased — but  goody  Slippy-Stockings, 

153 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

Who  went  for  wisdom-dame,  bore  the  hot  jug 
Too    brimmed    when    it   was    time    to  draw  the 

milk.   .   .   . 
They  had  to  dry  the  milk,  and  it,  being  eager, 
Went  the  wrong  way  and  oozed  into  her  head : 
The  little  one  died  so  soon.    She  lay  there 
Sooing  the  oldest  milking-croon  of  all — 

"  Baby  calf-lips  nuzzle  not  nigh  you, 

'Tis  my  fingers  firm  that  try  you 
Knowingly; 

Patch-Eye,  Teaty,  I'll  not  wry  you, 

Let  your  warm  milk  down  to  me.   ..." 
Then  she  would  wear  her  wedding  gown  all  night, 
And  in  the  orchard  we  could  hear  her  sing 
Mall,  go,  gather  a  Posy — Lasses  turn  Grey — 
Wander,   Wonder — and,   Peg  was  clouting  her 

Nightcaps ; 
She  sank  heavily  to  uneasy  stillness, 
Then  mooed  a  baby-noise;  till,  the  fourth  dawn. 
She  hollowed  her  arms  gently  across  her  body, 
"Cold,    cold,"    she    said,  and   then   "Cover  us 

up  "... 
And  she  grew  colder.  .  .  . 

Maudlin.  Much  strangeness  comes  in  it: 

I've  wondered  what  there  is  in  me  to  gather 
So  secretly,  why  life  can  leak  such  whiteness, 
And  if  we  feel  it  change,  and  how  in  it 
We  sow  hid  things  that  never  were  in  us — 
Can  it  be  that  our  thoughts  go  into  it. 
And  all  we  feel  and  see  must  alter  it 
From  white  to  white  that  seems  but  white  to  us? 
I  knew  a  woman  and  her  daughter  once 
Who  went  together.  .  .  .  The  young  one's  died; 
she  cried, 

154 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

O  she  did  cry,  until  the  mother  said 

"Here,  lass,  have  mine;   I  know,  and  you  shall 

know." 
Girls,  she  did  that  quite  calmly:  ere  he  would  take, 
Mab  had  to  cover  his  eyes  with  a  warm  cloth. 
And  even  o'  nights  to  wear  her  mother's  clothes. 
'Tis  grave  to  suckle  across  the  brood  like  that — 
It  threads  the  mind.  .  .  . 

Bet.  Mothering,  mothering,  mothering — 

Cannot  we  find  our  lives  except  that  way? 

The  moon  seems  to  be  high  over  the  mist 
1107V,  for  there  is  tight  evciynvhere  out- 
side; so  that,  011  peering  into  the  night, 
it  is  with  surprise  all  is  found  obscure 
and  not  easily  definable  or  detachable 
amid  the  faint  daze  of  light  that  feigns 
to  illumine  the  valley.  The  immen 
have  become  only  black  shapes  upon 
the  square  I  ill  en  patch  7vhich  is  the 
door^vay  surrounded  by  the  blackness 
of  the  barn.  A  dog  ho7vls  somezvhere 
far  away. 

Lib. 

That  dog  sounds  from  some  low-set  roadside  farm ; 

What  does  it  hear?  'Thei-e  is  a  short  silence. 

Maudlin.  Women,  what  does  it  see? 

They  say  dogs  howl  when  someone's  fetch  goes 
by. 

Lib. 

Mayhap  it  is  the  husband-shapes  a-coming. 

155 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

Nan. 

We  shall  see  nought  but  what  is  in  our  thoughts. 
Yet  I'd  be  very  fain  to  see  my  man.  .  .  . 
When  Gib  at  Hornbeam-Shallows  lost  his  wife 
He  had  to  hire  a  wench  for  the  first  time 
And  at  next  Martimas  hiring  came  to  me 
And  offered  me  four  pounds  for  the  half  year, 
Saying  he'd  give  me  his  wife's  milking  coats 
To  make  it  up,  ay,  and  her  two  best  shawls. 
One  darned  across  the  neck-place,  one  loom-new; 
I  told  him  I  would  liefer  have  her  shoes — 
That  frightened  him  so  well  he  stammered  off. 
But  Sib  had  heard ;  she  drew  him  with  her  eyes. 
And  said  she'd  go  for  three  pounds  and  the  shawls 
If  he  would  let  her  use  a  gown  sometimes. 
Then  at  each  hiring  she  stayed  on  for  less. 
Till  in  the  third  year's  end  he  wedded  her; 
And  so  she's  gotten  shawls  and  shoes  as  well. 
I  missed  a  savoury  chance,  for  he  is  old 
And  childless;  both  stock  and  land  are  his: 
Ay,  if  I  had  gone  quietly  to  him 
Ere  now  I  might  have  had  him  for  myself. 

Bet. 

I  should  not  wait  three  years  for  any  man.  .  .  . 
When  Sib  would  hire  a  lass  Gib  said  his  other 
Had  done  without  for  seven  and  thirty  years. 
And  he  had  ringed  her  but  to  save  her  wage: 
At  first  he  sent  the  hind  to  milk  for  her, 
But  stopped  him  soon,  saying  that  men's  hands 
Made  cow-teats  horny;  then  at  Whitsun  hiring 
He  let  him  go,  grutching  it  was  waste 
With  such  a  goodly  woman  in  the  yard ; 
So  now  she  has  to  herd  and  fork  and  winnow, 
To  drive  the  cart  and  take  a  side  of  thatch.  .  .  . 

156 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

Gib  says  young  wives  are  better  worth  their  fodder 
Than  worn  ones.  Trulyshchas  a  gown  sometimes, 
For  she  goes  ever  in  an  old  woman's  wear — 
He  says  the  other's  gear  will  last  her  days. 
Nan  must  surely  see  more  than  that  to-night. 

Lib. 

Ah,  but  Sib  knows  him:  he  does  so  fondle  her; 
He  lets  her  hair  down  every  eve  to  spread  it 
And  feel  the  pleasure  of  the  comb's  sleek  goings, 
Bidding  her  "  Stand  over"  as  when  a  cow 
Rubs  up  against  the  boust  at  milking-time ; 
While,  when  they  gleaned  their  harvest  lields  by 

moonlight 
To  stint  the  widows,  he  would  bend  down  as  she 
Bobbed  up  a  mouth  all  blackberry-stains  to  kiss. . . 
Before  she  is  fit  for  kitchen  toil  again 
He  will  so  wonder  how  she  has  grown  the  mis- 
tress. ...  Bet  laughs. 

U  K  s  li  L ,  sh  ivering. 

Hush,  \Xo  not  lauyh;  it  creeps  up  in  the  roof, 
And  drips  on  us  again  like  the  thick  water 
Through  the  black  pulpy  thatch-leak  in  Novem- 
ber. .  .  . 
That  laugh  sounded  as  lonely  as  one  Hail.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  silence. 

Maudlin. 

The  heifer  ceased  to  moan  a  moment  past — 

It  seems  as  if  it  holds  its  breath  to  listen.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  long  silence. 

Bkt. 

I  need  to  speak,  but  what  I  have  forgotten.  .  .  . 

157 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

Ursel. 

Lass,  do  not  make  us  speak,  or  we  may  miss  it.  .  .  . 

Maudlin. 

O,  do  not  speak  to  us,  or  we  may  miss  it.  .  .  . 

Lib. 

We  could  not  hear  you  for  this  listening.  .  .  . 

Nan. 

I  look  so  deeply  that  I  cannot  see  .  .  . 

1  cannot  listen  for  it  for  listening.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  long  silence  which  pulses  slowly 
with  half-caught  heavy  breaths  and 
slight  restless  rustlings  of  the  hay  in 
which  the  iwmen  seem  motionless. 

Bet. 

Do    I    feel    something?    Do  we  feel    something 
growing?  .  .  . 

Quiet  steps  are  heard  to  shift  the  lane's 
pebbles.  The  women  look  sharply  at 
each  other,  start  soundlessly  to  their 
feet  and  lean  toward  the  door;  they 
move  forward  half  eagerly,  yet  each 
seeks  to  put  the  others  before  her,  so 
that  as  they  near  the  door  N  an  poises 
unwillingly  foremost;  when  the  light 
catches  their  faces  they  seem  about  to 
laugh. 

Nan. 

Nay,  I'll  not  meet  it — perhaps  it  is  not  mine  .  .  . 
I  will  not  know  aforetime  to  despoil 
The  gradual  joy  of  waking  to  a  man — 
I  will  not  lose  one  feeling  of  dear  change, 

158 


MIDSUMMER     EV  E 

Or  slur  it  by  being  conscious  of  the  next.  .  .  . 

Yet  even  then  love  should  be  marvellous 

As  the  surprise  of  secret  lights  expected  .  .  . 

O,  if  I  meet  some  one  I  do  not  want.  .  .  . 

Come,  maids,  join  hands  and  let  us  go  together — 

Still,  we  might  make  too  sure.  .  .  . 

When  Nan  is  across  the  threshold  the 
others  huddle  back.  The  steps  come 
nearer.  In  the  road  beyond  Nan  a 
imman  appears  quietly  from  the  left; 
so  far  as  it  is  possible  to  see,  her 
features  and  array  are  the  counter- 
part of  Nan's. 

Nan,  continuing.  Hey,  here  's  a  woman  .  .  . 

Lib,  did  you  tell  the  slatterns  at   Cherry-Close 

mill? 
Nay,  'tis  some  rag-bag  sleeper  under  hedges.  .  .  . 

Bet,  in  an  undertone  ofivonder. 
Why  are  their  coats  alike? 

Nan,  turning  her  head  and  calling. 

Ursel,  Ursel, 
She 's    from    the    farm — our    granary    has   been 

searched ; 
For  see,  she  wears  my  old  plum  petticoat — 
Come,  let  us  strip  her  and  pen  her  in  a  sty  .  .  . 
But  ...  I  have  on  my  old  plum  petticoat  .  .  . 
And  how  can  she  come  from  the  farm  when  she 

goes  to  the  farm?  .  .  . 

Lib,  hastily  and  beloiv  her  breath. 
Fetches  and  wraiths  .  .  .  fetches  and  wraiths  .  ... 
fetches  and  wraiths  .  .  .      Peering  about  her. 
Is  there  no  way  from  here? 

159 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

Maudlin,  under  her  breath. 

My  mother's  grandmam 
Saw  her  own  fetch  a  week  before  she  died.  .  .  . 

Bet,  in  a  low  tone. 

Come  through   the   neat-house  ere  we    too   see 

ours — 
Ursel,  come  .  .  .  come.  .  .  . 

Ursel,  in  a  hushed  voice. 

If  all  your  days  are  used 
Your  fetch  can  meet  you  at  the  neat-house  door — 
Ah,  stay,  for  Nan  will  need  us  when  .   .   .  that 


goes. 


Bet,  Lib,  and  MwjUhi'N  hurry  and croivd 
into  t/ie  77iistal  imheedingly .  Mean- 
while  tJie  ■woman  has  passed  from  left 
to  right  along  the  roady  turning  always 
to  Nan  and  holding  out  her  arms  to 
her. 

Nan,  leaning  out  toimird  her  imth  her  hands  pressed 

over  her  lieart. 
Her  unapparent  features  make  me  feel 
How  others  must  feel  my  face.  .  .  .  The  droop  of 

her  skirt 
Is  creeping  on  my  hips.  ...  I  have  watched  my 

feet 
Draw  sideways  so.  .  .  .  Her  shadow  is  long  like 

mine 
About  the  bosom  ...   I  wish  I  could  touch  her 

hair — 
I  know  so  well  the  tingle  and  smell  of  my  hair .  .  . 
Is  this  a  fetch? 

She  reaches  forward  as  if  she  would  follow  ^ 
1 60 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

until  she  is  in  the  middle  of  the  road; 
the  -woman  passes  from  sight  to  the 
right.  Nan's  body  loosens;  she  turns 
confusedly  to  the  barn  and  sees  Ur- 
siiVs  face  pale  in  the  shade. 

Nan,  continuing.    O,  Ursly,  where  have  I  gone? 

I  have  lost  myself,  for  I  was  here  but  now  .  .  . 

She  remembers  and  shakes. 

Dear  soul,  what  did  you  see? 

Ursel,  taking  her  in  her  arms. 

I  saw  what  you  saw. 

Nan. 

Was  it  my  fetch? 

Ursel.  I  think  it  was  a  fetch. 

Nan,  numbly. 

I  must  be  going  to  die.  ...  I  cannot  feel  so  .  .  . 
There  's  nought  I  want  to  do  when  I  am  dead  .  .  . 
She    is    silent    a   moment^    then    seems 
startled  into  sobbing. 
O,  Ursel,  Ursel,  I  cannot  let  me  die.  .  .  . 

Ursel. 

Folk  say  a  fetch  is  seen  at  its  departing 

From  a  cold  house  whence  it  shall  lead  a  soul ; 

But  this  comes  like  a  child-birth  closing  in, 

And  so  perchance  it  does  but  signify 

The  consciousness  of  death  that  breaks  in  all. 

We  stand  outside  the  process  of  the  earth 

And  watch  it  as  immortals;  and  consider 

Death,  which  we  think  a  deeply  moving  thing 

(Observing  eagerly  its  tine  emotions, 

i6i  M 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

The  impressive  strangeness  of  its  mean  romance, 
Its  strong-tanged  character  and  accidents, 
And  all  the  keen  new  chances  it  affords 
For  sympathy  and  for  imagination), 
But  think  not  to  connect  it  with  ourselves— 
So  sure  we  are  all 's  possible  to  us. 
Then  a  near  comprehension  that  is  love 
Of  trees  or  sheep,  songs  or  some  man  or  woman, 
Shakes  us  one  day  and  nothing  is  the  same. 
Because  we  grow  aware  that  we  must  leave 
The  very  joy  that  lights  ourselves  for  us 
And  shows  where  we  may  greaten  for  its  sake. 
'Tis  life's  beginning;  we  perceive  the  earth 
And  go  down  into  it  and  nestle  to  it 
Defeatedly  before  its  larger  thought: 
Numbly  we  measure  ourselves  by  all  we  see, 
We  feel  uneasily  yet  willingly 
Each  thing  that  happens  may  happen  to  us  too, 
And  we  are  cheated  by  each  grief  unsuffered — 
Yea,  ever  we  interrogate  decay 
To  know  our  own  duration  ;  we  must  touch 
Each  lovesome  thing  lest  it  or  we  should  fade. 
Until  the  searching  quiver  of  contact  reaches 
And  makes  us  conscious  where  we  can  be  love- 
some; 
We  find  ourselves  in  others  and  thus  learn 
How  others  are  in  us,  and  so  we  creep 
To  large  experiences  we  could  not  think — 
Effectual  perfection  of  ripe  life  ; 
The  earth  and  all  the  darling  ways  of  it 
Are  ours  by  love,  for  all  that  we  must  leave 
Comes  into  us  and  makes  us  live  it  swiftly 
Lest  we  should  miss  some  thing.  So  that  one  love 
Insists  that  every  love  in  earth  shall  feed  it. 
To  keep  it  from  the  unsafety  of  ignorance 

162 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

And  let  our  brief  days  yield  their  sweetness  up. 
Such  is  the  consciousness  of  death — ah,  such 
Must  be  made  yours;  mayhap  this  is  the  way. 

Nan. 

The  consciousness  of  death.  .  .  .  Though  that  be 

all, 
It  is  too  much:  even  if  this  fetch  abides 
Unnumbered  years  ere  I  see  it  depart, 
Yet  all  is  made  unsure  and  I  may  sink 
Before  I  have  felt  half  I  need  to  feel. 
I  must  make  every  passion  in  myself. 
Have  each  emotion  of  my  wilful  sowinje;" — 
The  pain  of  sap,  the  pain  of  bud  and  bloom, 
Of  hard  green  fruit  sun-bruised  to  thick  gold  juice, 
The  pain  of  the  sharp  kernel  in  the  pulp 
(Transmuter  of  sweet  to  inmost  bitterness), 
The  pain  of  orderly  corruption  too— 
Of  the  withdrawing  sap,  of  the  sick  falling 
Into  long  grass  beneath  the  rain-soaked  boughs, 
Of  gentle  decomposing  for  small  roots; 
So  that  if  death  's  the  end.  the  true  completion, 
I  could  believe  myself  fulfilled  and  ripe, 
A  sufferer  of  the  topmost  joy  and  grief. 
And  past  the  need  of  any  eternity  .  .  . 
O,  I  desire  old  age,  because  old  age 
Has  more  capacity,  more  ways  of  joy.  .  .  . 

Her  sobs  hide  her  7Vords.  Urskl  leads 
her  to  the  hay  and  seats  her  among  it 
again  and  herself  by  her,  putting  her 
arms  about  her  and  draioing  her  head 
do7vn  upon  her  bosom. 

Urskl. 

Old  age  must  sit  and  wait  as  we  must  wait  .  .  . 

163 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

We  can  grow  old  so  quickly  in  our  souls  .  .  . 
One  utters  a  love-call  and  no  answer  comes, 
One  suffers  motherhood  within  one's  heart 
Of  cold  unconscious  children  who  can  render 
A  tolerance  of  affection  more  remote 
Than  strait  denial;  and  such  maternity 
Waits  not  for  any  bearing  through  the  body — 
When  love  has  come  maternity  must  follow, 
And  if  the  body  may  not  be  made  fruitful 
The  spirit  chooses  its  own  fruitfulness: 
All  that  we  miss  is  happening  in  others, 
Others  are  feeling  all  we  yearn  to  feel. 
And  if  we  will  not  let  ourselves  forget 
How  love  has  wrung  us  we  pass  through  it  with 

them.  .  .  . 
Ah,  wonder,  joy,  of  contact  that  enlarges 
Our  bodies'  possibilities  and  times, 
And  gathers  life  for  us  to  nourish.  .  .  . 

A  stifled  cry  from  Bet  is  heard  from  the 
neat-house. 

Bet.  Aa — h.  .  .  . 

Nan,  sinking  back  faintly  in  Ursel's  arms. 
Does  ...  it  return  and  .  .  .  call?  .  .  . 

Ursel.  Hush,  'tis  Bet's  voice.  .  .  . 

Ajter  a  brief  interval  filled  ivith   slight 

soundsy  Bet  appears  in  the  neat-house 

dooTway;  she  peeps  before  her  until 

she  sees  the  two  women  in  the  hay. 

Bet,  in  a  lo7v  eager  tone. 
Ursel,  Ursel.  .  .  . 

Ursel  rises  and  goes  toivard  her. 
The  cow  has  died  ...  in  the  dark.  .  .  . 
164 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

When  I  returned  but  now  by  the  yard  door 
I  missed  the  boust  and  groped  into  her  stall — 
And  did  not  know  until  I  heaved  and  spread 
Up  a  flat  softness  that  went  sick  beneath  me 
With  long  stiffshakin<T-s,  while  her  unearned  wind 
Broke  far  within,  then  slid  against  my  cheek  .  .  . 
I  could  have  borne  it  if  she  had  been  cold; 
But  she  was  nearly  cold,  so  that  I  felt 
A  thread-thin  warmth  I  could  not  stay  nor  make. . . 

Nan,  approaching  Bkt  swiftly  from  behind  and 

grasping  her  shoulder. 
Is  the  cow  dead? 

Bet,  shrinking  from  her  touch. 

Nannie,  the  cow  is  dead. 

Nan. 

I  milked  her  last  of  all,  and  now  my  fetch 

Has  milked  her  too;  will  .  .  .  it  .  .  .  take  all  from 

me 
I  own  through  love? 
{To  Bet.)  Why  did  you  shrink  from  me? 

Bet. 

I  did  not  shrink  from  you;  what  need  is  there? 

Nan  holds  oat  her  arms  to  her;  again  she 
draws  away  from  Nan. 
Nannie,  I  cannot  help  it ...  I  cannot  help  it.  .  .  . 
There  's  more  than  this  world  in  you,  and  I  know 

not 
What  you  might  do  to  me  past  your  own  will : 
You  have  seen  your  fetch  and  are  not  one  of  us, 
For  we    know   not  your    being's   dim    half-con- 
ditions .  .  . 
And  maybe  if  you  touch  ought  that  has  life 

165   ^ 


.MIDSUMMER     EVE 

You  make  it  that  your  fetch  can  take  it  too — 
So  died  the  heifer.  ...  Or  maybe  your  least  touch 
Draws  life  from  others  to  win  you  a  few  hours; 
Or  you  are  of  the  dead,  and  call  folk  to  them 
Through  sympathy  of  the   senses'   understand- 
ing. .  .  . 
Poor  Nannie  .  .  .  O,  poor  Nannie  .  .  .  O,  poor 
Nannie.  .  .  . 

Slie  sobs  loudly y  stooping  to  wipe  her  eyes 
with  her  petticoat-hem. 

Ursel,  while  seeking  to  still  her. 
Let  us  turn  home  to  bed:  we  shall  not  sleep; 
But  once  we're  stripped  we  can  relax  our  bodies, 
Lying  past  thought  for  misery  till  insight 
Returns  again  and  brings  us  the  proportion 
Of  all  .  .  .  and  us.  .  .  . 

Nan.  I  shall  bide  here  till  dawn 

To  see  if ...  I  return  and  go  out  .  .  .  out  .  .  . 
{To  Bet.) 

Have  you  left  Lib   and    Maudlin   hiding  some- 
where; 

Or  do  they  home  by  now? 

Bet,  overcoming  her  tears  gradually. 

We  fled  from  here 
When  .  .  .   when  .  .  .  and  reached  the  neat-yard 

ere  we  knew; 
We  climbed  the  knoll  and  passed  behind  the  barn ; 
Then  through  the  corn  land,  dew-wet  to  our  hearts, 
We  beat  the  thick  rye  down  that  choked  our  feet 
Amid  its  shaggy  sighing  stilly  weight, 
Until  the  cottages  at  Damson-Closes 
Hung  o'er  us  like  a  dark  broody-winged  hen — 

166 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

We  shunned  the  watcher's  light  where  the  old 

woman 
Waits  for  her  death,  and  dripped  into  the  lane 
Soft  as  cast  shadows.  ...  Ever  all  feared  to  speak : 
Yet  I  went  with  the  others  through  lost  fields, 
Straining  to  see  the  thing  we  prayed  to  miss, 
Because  I  knew  I  dared  not  near  the  homestead ; 
Until  I  felt  that  neither  should  I  dare 
A  more  remote  returning  by  myself — 
When,  loitering  unnoticed  by  those  trances, 
I  sought  even  you  rather  than  be  alone. 

Nan,  rigidly,  her  head  having  been  long  averted 

to  the  barn's  doorway. 
I  hear  my  feet. 

Ursel,  in  alarm.    Nan,  do  not  go.  .  .  . 

Nan.  I  m^ist. 

Bet,  imldly. 

Again.  .  .  .  Wherever  shall  I  go  alone?  .  .  . 

She  tugs  her  cap-strings  loose  and  her  cap 
over  her  eyes;  she  breathes  so  deeply 
that  her  trembling  is  heard  by  her 
breath  as  she  fumbles  her  itmy  into 
the  mistal.  The  quiet  steps  are  heard 
again;  as  Nan  approaches  the  thres- 
hold the  ivoman  reappears  to  the  right 
and  passes  down  the  lane  to  the  left, 
ahvays  holding  out  her  arms  to  Nan, 
whose  arms  hang  tensely  at  her  sides 
while  her  fingers  twitch  at  her  petti- 
coat as  she  holds  back  and  back  from 
meeting  the  embrace.  Ursel  tries  to 
go  to  Nan,  but  she  cannot  trail  her 
167 


MIDSUMMER     EVE 

feet  after  her  nor  draw  down  her  hands 
that  cover  her  face. 

Nan. 

How  have  I  parted?  .  .  .  Where  am  I  in  deed?  .  .  . 

What  of  me  is  unseen? Go.  .  .  . 

71ie  woman  having  disappeared  to  the  left, 
still  opening  her  arms  to  Nan,  Nan 
turjis  and  totters  to  the  door's  edge  on 
that  side;  thence  she  feels  her  way 
supportedly  along  the  door,  hut  when 
she  comes  to  its  end  she  slides  to  her 
knees;  after  moving  a  little  farther  so, 
she  sinks  forward  on  her  face  and 
crawls  blindly  toward  Ursel's  feet. 
At  the  fall  Ursel's  hands  drop;  she 
reaches  to  Nan,  kneels  by  her,  feels 
her  heart  and  hands,  holds  her  own 
hand  before  Nan's  month  and  nos- 
trils; then  with  one  swift  movement 
she  loosens  her  own  raiment  nearly  to 
her  waist,  and,  lying  against  Nan, 
clasps  her  in  her  arms  and  gathers 
her  into  her  bosom. 

Ursel.  Nan.  .  .  .  O,  Nan.  .  .  . 

The  two  lie  quite  still;  the  stirred  dust 
settles  on  them  slowly  and  greyly  in 
the  moonlight. 

Curtain. 


1 68 


LAODICE  AND  DANAE 


'  And,  O,  perchance  it  is  the  fairest  lot 
At  once  to  be  a  queen  and  he  forgot; 
For  queens  are  oft  remembered  by  the  7veighed 

Wild  dusly  peacock-flashing  sins  they  played, 
But  queens  clean-hearted  leave  us  and  grozv  less, 
Lost  in  the  common  light  of  righteousness :' 

From   KING    RENE'S  HONEYMOON:   A 
MASQUE,  Scene  vii. 


170 


TO  B.  J.  FLETCHER 

OA\  I  RE  Ben  Fletcher,  oft  I  bless 
Your  rotund  Jacobean  name; 
If  the  i^reaf  cre'w  could  still  express 
Their  hearts  in  their  dim  place  of  Fame y 
As  once  at  Globe  or  Mermaid-ales, 
With  love  your  liking  they  nould  greet 
For  country  things  and  queens'  mad  tales 
And  lines  "ivith  soundi7igfeet. 

But  in  this  troublous  Jie7uer  time 
Suchfellou's  have  not  filled  your  days, 
So  it  is  left  for  me  to  chime 
These  quieter  verses  of  your  praise  : 
For  a  fair  theme  I  need  7iot  strive 
IVhile  manhood  kno7vs  as  boyhood  knew 
The  joys  of  art,  the  joys  of  life, 
I  have  received  from  you. 

What  days  could  ever  be  so  long 

As  those  our  pristine  Summers  poised 

O'er  a  charmed  7<alley  isled  amo7ig 

Their  bright  slow-breaking  tides  unnoised? 

Then  Dials  were  new  and  came  to  stir 

A  passionate  thirst  within  the  eyes; 

Each  dawn  7vas  a  discoverer 

Of  poets  unearthly  wise. 

First-comer  of  my  friends,  the  years 
Behold  much  friendship  fade  and  set; 
The  shrunken  world  imparts  its  fears. 
Most  men  their  early  power  forget. 
But  art  stays  true  for  us,  aiid  we 
In  it  are  steadfast:  for  a  sign 
Its  wonder  joins  us  changelessly 
Voter  name  stands  here  with  mine. 

Marcli  8th,  1909. 

171 


ARGUMENT 

Antiochus  Theos,  one  of  the  Hellenic  Kings  of  the  East 
of  the  line  of  Seleucus,  reigned  in  Antioch.  He  had  espoused 
Laodice  his  kinswoman,  according  to  the  usage  of  his  race ; 
but  after  many  years  he  put  her  from  him,  and  took  to  wife 
Berenice,  daughter  and  sister  of  Ptolemys  of  Egypt,  for 
reasons  of  state. 

Laodice  withdrew  to  Ephesus  and  kept  court  there :  long 
affection,  resurgent,  sent  Antiochus  thither  to  join  her. 
Shortly  afterward  he  died  at  Ephesus  in  Laodice's  care. 

Berenice  and  Laodice  then  warred,  each  to  gain  the 
kingdom  for  her  child:  the  infant  son  of  Berenice  dis- 
appeared, and  eventually  Seleucus  U.,  the  son  of  Laodice, 
held  the  throne  of  Antiochus. 

In  the  course  of  their  wars  Laodice  retired  from  Ephesus 
on  finding  that  Sophron,  the  governor  of  the  city,  secretly 
tralTicked  with  the  party  of  Berenice.  While  she  sat  in 
some  adjacent  city  Sophron  unsuspiciously  rejoined  her 
counsels  ;  she  immediately  devised  his  death,  but  he,  being 
warned  by  his  old  love  Danae,  the  Ljueen's  favourite,  saved 
himself  by  flight. 


PERSONS: 

Laodice,  a  Oueen  of  the  Seleucid  House  in  Asia. 
Danae,    Mysta,    Rhodogune,    Barsine,    and 

other  Waiting-Women. 
Three  Women-Musicians. 
Sophron,  Seleucid  Governor  of  Ephesus. 

Ill  Smyrna.    B.C.  246. 


172 


LAODICE  AND  DANAE 

Behind  the  curtain  a  7vo man  sings  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  a  harp  and  a  bell. 

I    WILL  sing  of  the  women  who  have  borne 
rule, 
The  severe,  the  swift,  the  beautiful ; 
I  will  praise  their  loftiness  of  mind 
That  made  them  too  wise  to  be  true  or  kind; 
I  will  sing  of  their  calm  injustice  loved 
For  the  pride  it  fed  and  the  power  it  proved. 

Once  in  Egypt  a  girl  was  queen 

Ashamed  that  her  womanhood  should  be  seen; 

She  wore  a  beard,  she  called  herself  king. 

She  was  uneasy  with  governing; 

She  believed  a  king  was  greater  than  she. 

So  she  found  a  king  and  his  mastery. 

In  Smyrna  sits  a  queen  to-night 

Who  does  not  shine  by  another's  light; 

She  has  laid  her  husband  on  time's  dust-heap, 

But  for  that  she  holds  not  her  title  cheap; 

New  radiance  comes  on  woman  by  her, 

New  force  in  woman  is  seen  to  stir. 

She  has  taken  the  land  and  the  sea  trom  men ; 
She  has  shewn   men  the  power  of  their  source 
aeain.   .   .   . 

'73 


LAO DICE     AND     DANAE 

The  curtain  rises. 

A  lofty  chamber  of  iJiingled  Hellenic  afid  Asiatic 
architecture  is  seen.  The  7valls  are  of  black 
stone:  on  the  right  a  portal  toward  the  front  of 
the  stage  is  concealed  by  a  curtain  embroidered 
with  parrots  and  Babylonian  branch-work: 
high  and  toivard  the  back  is  a  double  window^ 
with  open  cedar  lattices^  of  an  inner  room: 
high  in  the  opposed  wall  is  a  short  arcade  with 
a  projecting  gallery.  An  open  colonnade  ex- 
tends across  the  rear  wall  at  two-thirds  of  its 
height;  its  pillars  support  the  roof:  the  plat- 
form of  this  colonnade  is  accessible  by  an  open 
stair  recessed  in  the  wall. 

Queen  'Laot>ice  reclines  on  a  great  divan  set  toward 
the  left  centre  of  the  chamber.  The  musicians 
whose  singing  and  playing  have  just  ceased 
kneel  on  a  I^ersian  carpel  before  her:  between 
them  and  the  portal  stands  a  tall  brazier  whence 
a  wavering  heat  rises.  A  golden  evening  sky 
is  visible  through  the  colonnade^  tvhere  Danae 
leans  against  a  pillar. 

Laodice. 

BE  silent  now;  I  let  you  sing  too  much. 
I  am  awaiting  now  too  many  things 
To  bear  this  fret  of  waiting  till  you  end 
And  I  can  think  again.    Be  quietly  gone. 

The  women  go  out. 

Danae. 

You  bade  them  sing  to  make  one  moment  brief. 

Laodice. 

What  are  you  watching  like  a  larger  cat, 

174 


LAO  DICE     AND     DANAE 

Sweetheart,  little  heart,  noiseless  and  alert? 
You  shall  not  watch  me  like  a  prim  wise  cat. 

Danae. 

I  watch  a  girl  sway  slightly,  near  the  tide. 
As  if  rehearsing  dance-steps  in  her  heart; 
She  hangs  lit  snakes  of  sea-weed  down  her  bosom  ; 
She  takes  a  letter  from  her  bunchv  hair.  .  .  . 

She  /ai/o-/is  and  leans  over,  holding  the 
pUlar. 

Laodice. 

Find  me  a  ship,  ships;  dark  ones,  strange  ones. 
I  must  have  ships,  so  find  them,  little  heart; 
And,  more  than  all,  a  ship  of  Antioch. 

Danae. 

How  tiny  a  girl  looks  under  these  deep  rocks.  .  .  . 

Laodice  yaitms. 
Madam,  I  have  searched  well;  yet  until  now 
No  deep-sea  ship  has  passed  the  promontory; 
Now  a  great  ship  with  tawny  sails  comes  on, 
An  ocean-threatening  centaur  for  its  prow. 

Laodice. 

That  is  from  Ephesus,  not  Antioch.   .   .   . 
I   purge  one  thought  thereby  and  make  repay- 
ment. 
I  am  taken  with  an  inward  shivering: 
Perhaps  I  am  cold  with  night — come  down  and 
warm  me. 

Danae  descends  and  reclines  byl^xoTtiCE. 
Haughty  and  passive  and  obedient, 
May  not  my  queen's  bosom  receive  your  head? 
When  I  worked  empery  in  Ephesus 
That  Sophron,  governor — did  he  not  love  you? 

'75 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

Danae 

He  said  he  did. 

Laodice.  And  you? 

Danae.  I  said  he  did. 

Thereon  he  made  too  sure  of  me  too  soon: 
It  is  unwise  to  let  men  be  too  sure, 
And  for  that  reason  I  hung  up  my  silks 
On  a  swart  Nabataan,  having  smeared  her 
With  my  rare  private  unguent,  and   concealed 

her 
In  his  choice  corner — where  she  bit  his  lip, 
Then  let  her  laughing  teeth  take  light  of  moon. 
There  was  no  more  of  Sophron  afterward.   .   .   . 
Although  I  looked  at  him  almost  penitently.  .  .  . 

Laodice. 

No  more?  Was  there  no  more,  my  little  one? 

Danae. 

Ah,  yes.  .  .   .  When  he  would  never  look  at  me 

I  felt  I  could  not  live  outside  his  arms. 

I  went  to  him  at  night  in  a  slave's  skirt, 

And  by  humiliating  actions  soothed 

His  wincing  mind,  until  he  stooped  to  me. 

I  had  him  soon.    And  then  I  tired  of  him. 

Laodice. 

And  then,  indeed,  there  was  no  more  at  all? 

Danae. 

I  have  not  seen  him  since.    We  left  that  city. 
You  have  my  faith.    You  know  I  am  all  yours. 

176 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

Laodice. 

That  is  quite  well.    He  has  no  years  for  you; 
He  is  found  treasonous,  and  must  be  undone. 
O,  he  goes  out.  .   .   .   Dear,  I  am  very  cold. 
Is  it  because  my  heart  is  cold?    Men  say  it. 

DANAii. 

Your  heart  is  warm  to  me. 

Laodice.  What  do  men  say? 

Danae. 

They  say  you  fled  to  Sardis  and  to  Smyrna 
Because  you  poisoned  him  at  Ephesus 
And  heard  his  feet  when  a  room  echoed. 

Laodice.  Him  ? 

Danae. 

Antiochus  the  God,  your  king-  and  spouse. 

Laodice. 

Why  do  they  so  consider  me  the  cause? 

Danae. 

You  hold  the  physician  Smerdis  in  more  favour. 

Laodice. 

And  did  I  poison  him,  my  Danae? 

Danae. 

Dear  lady,  surely. 

Laodice.  Surely.  ...   It  is  sure. 

Was  I  not  made  the  Sister,  natural  wife? 

177  N 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

Did  he  not  change  me  for  a  daughter  of  Egypt 

Robed  with  a  satrapy,  crowned  by  an  isle? 

She  laved  her  body  daily  in  Nile  water, 

Which  can  make  fruitful  even  stones  and  virgins; 

Itsoonbroughtforththe  mud's  accustomed  spawn, 

A  valuable  heir  of  all  the  lands. 

How    could    she    keep  him?     Needing    me    he 

turned : 
Was  it  not  best  for  him  to  die  still  needing  me 
And  leave  the  amount  of  kingdoms  to  my  boy. 
The  climbing  vine  of  gold  up  vShushan's  front, 
The  cedar  palaces  of  Ecbatana, 
Though  Berenice  sits  in  Antioch 
Safe  with  her  suckling,  in  her  suckling's  name? 
Winds,  bring  to  me  a  ship  from  Antioch. 
Since  that  dread  night  when  Mysta  stept  not  down 
With  all  you  speechless  ones  to  disarray  me. 
Have  you  not  dreamed  that  I  did  poison  her? 
Her  love  is  more  than  yours,  for  she  had  crept 
To  Antioch  to  sell  herself  in  bondage 
Where  Berenice  buys,  that  she  may  nurse 
The  child  for  Berenice — and  for  me. 
While  uncle  Egypt  plucks  my  crown  for  it. 

Danae. 

Which   fingers  mixed    the  poison?    See,  I    kiss 

them, 
Trust  them  ever  to  do  their  will  with  me. 
There  is  no  poison  in  a  poppy-seed; 
The  seedling  draws  its  venom  from  the  earth — 
'Tis  the  earth's  natural  need  for  such  event. 

Laodice. 

Ay,  but  the  disposition  is  in  the  seed; 
I  poison  by  a  motion  of  the  heart. 

178 


L  A  O  D I C  E     AND     D  A  N  A  E 

RiioDOGUNE,  a  Partliian  waiting-woman^ 
enters. 

RlIODOGUNE. 

Madam,  the  governor  of  Ephesus 

Comes  newly  from  the  harbour  to  your  will. 

Danae. 

Sophron! 

Laodice.       Lie  still.  A  silence, 

Rhodogune.  Madam,  must  I  go  down? 

Laodice. 

Bid  this  I'^phesian  governor  to  me. 

RlIODOGUNE  goes  out.    Laodice  lays  a 
hand  on  Danae's  heart. 

It  is  now  twilight.    Sophron  enters. 

Sophron. 

Queen,  am  I  swift  enough  to  your  commanding? 

Laodice. 

I  am  ever  rich  in  your  discerning  service. 

Why  came  you  by  the  sea? 

She  sees  that  SovHRoyi'sga:::e  is  fixed  on 
Danae,  2vho  docs  nut  look  at  hi  in. 

Girl,  stand  behind  me. 
Danae  obeys. 
Why  came  you  by  the  sea? 

Sophron.  Lady  .  .   .  the  sea?  .  .  . 

Laodice. 

Does  not  the  way  by  land  still  tit   mine  urgence? 

'79 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

SOPHRON. 

Your  safety's  urgence  made  it  seem  most  good 
To  search  the  straits  for  masts  of  Ptolemy. 

Laodice. 

Ha.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  And  did  you  speak  with  any 
such? 

Danae  looks  at  SoPHRON  and  shakes  her 
head. 

SOPHKON. 

The  seas  were  void  of  ahen  keels  to-night. 

Laodice. 

Are  there  Egyptians  seen  in  Ephesus? 

SoPHRON. 

None  since    the  aged   men  who   mummied  the 
king. 

Laodice. 

Tell  me  the  common  talk  of  Egypt's  plan ; 

And  what  device  to  handle  Ptolemy 

Is  in  your  friendly  mind. 

SOPHRON. 

There  's  but  a  common  fear  of  Egypt's  secret. 
We  cannot  meet  him  yet  unless  the  cities, 
Yes,  all  these  cities  of  men,  take  hands  with  us. 

Laodice. 

Must  I  keep  house  in  Smyrna  still,  my  man? 

Play  queen  in  a  corner  harmlessly? 

SoPHRON.  Madam, 

The  coast  is  safer  here  than  at  Ephesus, 
Retreat  on  Sardis  safer  and  more  ready. 

1 80 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

Laodice. 

I  more  withdrawn  apart  from  my  main  kingdom, 
Bafifled  from  drainage  of  the  unended  East. 
I  have  required  you  here  because  a  word, 
Perhaps  a  word  malicious,  has  crept  here: 
It  has  been  said  that  some  Ephesian  men 
Have  bartered  for  my  town  with  Ptolemy — 
Do  you  know  any  of  these?  Do  they  live? 

SOPHRON. 

There  are  none  known :  such  could  not  sell  past 
me. 

Laodice. 

They  use  my  palace:  examine  those  about  you. 

SOIMIRON. 

There  is  no  need:   Ik  now  them  to  be  clean. 

Danae  airaiu  shakes  her  head,  but  more 
eagerly. 

Laodice,   turning  her  head  and  looking  up  at 

Danae  suddenly. 
Why  do  you  tremble,  girl?   There's  nought  to 
fear. 

As  she  begins  to  speak  Danae's  hair  is 
shaken  loose;  a  rose  falls  from  it 
and  breaks  on  Laodice's  shoulder. 
Laodici-:  laughs  and  plays  with  the 
petals,  continuing  7cithout  pause. 

Laodice. 

Do  you  drop  me  a  sleepy  kiss,  maiden,  my  rare 

one? 
But,  O,  you  have  so  tumbled  your  hair  to  cull  it — 
Come  hither,  kneel,  and  I  will  bind  it  up. 

i8i 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

Danae,  obeying. 

Lady,  I  coiled  it  carelessly.  .  .  .   Indeed 

Such  ministration  is  my  precious  pardon. 

Laodice. 

Silk,  silky  silk  so  delicious  to  finger.   .  .   . 

Rose  I  held;  ruby-glows;  then  dark  hair  in  my 

hands.  .  .  . 
Nay,  I  am  hot ;  I  burn  ;  stay  there  and  fan  me.  .  .  . 
Dear,  do  not  cease  at  all. 

To  SOPHRON. 

Well,  my  captain? 

SOPHRON. 

You  shall  have  men's  minds  searched  in  Ephesus. 

Laodice. 

I  like  your  mind.  Also,  I  have  considered 
You  must  shut  up  your  port,  let  out  no  ship; 
Then  Ptolemy  shall  be  more  sure  each  night 
That  he  has  wiped  the  seas  .   .  .  till  you  slip  out. 

Soph  RON,  in  stupefaction. 
Slip  .  .   .  out? 

Laodice. 

Ay,  Sophron,  fall  on  him. 

SoPHRON,  eagerly.  Yes,  yes: 

These  things  shall  be,  and  you  shall  not  complain. 

Laodice. 

Nay,  go  not  now;  be  my  great  guest  this  night. 
The  tide  will  take  you  not  until  more  day. 
And  in  the  dawn,  white  hour  of  clearest  thought, 

T82 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

I  need  more  counsel  from  you  for  my  deeds. 

She  claps  her  hands :  B  arsine,  a  Persian^ 
enters. 
Let  this  strong  captain  be  well  feasted  now 
In  winy  webs  of  my  embroidering — 
Or — no — a  purple  suits  his  temper  best; 
And  send  a  slave  to  him  for  him  to  rule. 

SOPHRON. 

Graciousness,  yours:  let  me  but  stay  my  seamen. 

Laodice. 

Haretas  the  Pisidian  shall  go  down 

Into  the  place  of  ships,  but  not  my  guest: 

Entrust  your  ring  to  this,  and  she  will  bear  it. 

Barsine  and  Sopwko^  go  out .  Laodice 
nods  to  herself. 
I  saw  his  ring :  it  was  a  new  green  scarab. 

Danae  ceases  fanning  without  Laodice 
heeding. 

RiiODOGUNE,  outside. 

She-dog, come  back  and  you  shall  have  butwhips. 
A  dirty  woman  runs  in,  bearing  a  bundle 
with  in  her  ragged  robe;  R  h  o  dog  u  n  e 
follows  her. 

Laodice,  slowly. 

I  have  not  need  of  rinds  and  lees  to-night; 

Come,  take  these  out  and  burn  them. 

The  Woman.  Ay,  come. 

Laodice,  starting  up. 

Mysta,  Mysta,  my  joy!  What  have  you  there? 

1 8.-. 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

The  thing  a  mother  called  Antiochus? 

To  Rhodogune. 
Do  you  not  know  your  fellow  and  my  hand? 

Rhodogune  retires. 

Mysta. 

I  was  the  handmaid  of  a  displaced  queen  ; 
I  am  dry  nurse  to  the  undoubted  queen, 
Come  back  merely  to  boast  and  make  display 
How  lusty  a  baby  grows  in  careful  hands, 
How  noble  I  to  carry  a  living  king. 

Laodice,  leaping  to  her. 

Unwind,  dishevel,  give  it  up  to  me. 

Clapping  her  hands. 

Let  there  be  lights  above:  I  must  see  closely. 

If  I  embrace  you  I  shall  touch  it  too. 

A  woman  hangs  a  lamp  from  long  chains 
over  the  gallery  on  the  left^  then  with- 
draivs.  After  a  moment  she  passes 
along  the  colonnade  from  left  to  right 
and  disappears.  A  moment  later  she 
leans  from  the  latticed  windows  on 
the  right  to  light  t%m  lamps  suspended 
from  the  roof  to  a  point  immediately 
beloiv  her.  The  lights  are  such  that^ 
when  the  timlight  has  gone,  the  figures 
of  the  persons  are  more  definite  than 
their  features,  and  tJie  upper  part  of 
the  cha?nber  is  almost  unlit.  In  the 
meantifue  Mysta  has  continued. 

Mysta. 

Nay,  we  are  but  harbour-drift  from  Antioch : 
Come,  take  us  out  and  burn  us. 

184 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

Laodice.  Aha,  Mysta. 

Mysta. 

Touch  not  my  hair;  'tis  foul  from  many  ships. 

Laodice. 

I  have  ached   by  watching  ships  that  were  not 

yours. 
Were  you  in  Sophron's  vessel?    Did  he  know? 

Mysta. 

She  did  not  trust  me  soon  to  tend  her  child, 

Returning  oft  like  the  uneasy  cat: 

When  I  had  slipt  these  rags  on  it  and  me 

I  herded  with  night-women  by  the  shore. 

Ere  there,  I  passed  a  rift  in  palaces, 

Moment  of  empty  street  and  Berenice 

Marching  with  hunger  in  her  bright  fixed  eyes. 

Champing  her  golden  chain — one  hand  on  it 

Tugged  her  mouth  downward — one  hand  smote 

a  spear 
Upon  the  stones  as  she  stepped  on  and  on 
Toward  the  house  of  Ca^neus  your  known  friend. 
They  spied  the  harbour;  I  must  leave  by  land; 
Then  was  some  tale  of  fishers,  trading  sloops: 
Sophron  knows  not  the  thief  like  a  fierce  mother 
Whose  hard  feet  last  left  ship  at  Ephesus — 
Where  Ptolemy  is  looked  for  eagerly. 

As   she   speaks  Laodice  has   draxvn   a 
scarf  from  her  shoulders,  hvisted  it 
and  stramed  it  in  her  hands;  it  tears 
and  she  throrvs  it  doivn. 
Mysta  Jiolds  out  the  child  to  her. 
'Twas  warm  and  quiet  so  long.   Let  it  live. 

i«5 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

Laodice,  taking  the  child  and  scanning  it. 
Let  me  read  here: 

This  is  the  mould,  wrongly  retouched  and  spent — 
It  is  his  child  and  yet  I  have  not  known  it.  .   .  . 

Clasping  it  closely  to  her. 
I  am  the  changeless  mother  of  this  race, 
And  this  a  younger  seed.    By  the  opened  womb 
I  have  decided  being:  and  I  decide. 
Much  Asia  has  been  spanned  to  leave  it  here, 
More  Asia  will  be  narrowed  by  her  searchers; 
Mysta  might  die  next  time.    It  must  die. 
I  reached  my  hand  and  took  it  to  make  sure 
My  order  and  number  of  children  still  were  true. 
I  have  looked  on  it — its  purport  is  completed. 

Mysta. 

It  could  be  hid  for  ever:  let  it  live. 

Laodice. 

Mysta  shall  need  my  ritual  bath  and  wardrobe; 

Serve  me  by  delicate  sleep.    Mysta  must  go. 

She  kisses  Mysta  and  leads  her  to  the 
portal.    Mysi  A.  goes  out  passively. 

Laodice. 

Danae,  pile  me  cushions  and  hollow  them — 
There  in  the  shadowed  seat  beyond  the  breeze. 
No;    larger   cushions   with    no    rough    gold    in 

stitchings. 
One  softer  for  his  head — now  hold  it  there 
Till  I  can  kneel  and  lay  him  in  the  dimmest, 
For  he  may  sleep  a  little  yet.    Ay,  so.   .   .   . 
I  had  well-nigh  forgotten  to  appoint 
Sophron  a  chamber. 

1 86 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

Danae.  Madam,  I  will  go. 

Laodice. 

You  speak  too  loudly.    Madam,  you  will  remain: 
I  need  you  to  cast  gums  upon  the  censer 
To   make  me  drowsy — I   must  sleep   some  mo- 
ments. 

Danae. 

Storax  alone,  or  juniper? 

Laodice.  O,  storax. 

Danae  goes  to  a  recess  in  the  wall  near 
the  portal,  and  takes  out  a  painted 
bowl.  She  pours  grains  from  it  slowly 
upon  the  brazier;  brief  cloudy  flames 
illumine  her  face. 

Did  the  Silk-People  shape  that  bowl? 

Danae.  Maybe.  .  .  . 

I  could  burn  up  the  world  like  this  to-night, 
To  make  an  end  of  conflicts  and  of  burdens. 

As  Laodice  claps  her  hands  Barsine 
hurries  in  breathlessly. 

Barsine. 

Queen,  Queen.   .  .  . 

Laodice,  watching  Danai-'. 

Make  ready  fragrantly  and  freshly 
Chamber  for  Sophron  next  to  that  of  wSmerdis. 
Then  send  Smerdis  with  knives  and  drugs  to  me. 
Dana ii  opens  her  mouth  as  if  to  speak — 
the  fames  fall  as  she  holds  the  bowl 
poised  mot  ion  lessly. 
187 


LAODI CE     AND     DANAE 

Barsine. 

Sophron— none  can  find  him  ;  he  has  gone. 

Danae  lets  the  contents  of  the  howl  slide 
into  the  brazier ',  a  shaft  of  flame 
flares  high,  she  averts  her  face. 

Laodice. 

Ho,  are  we  dropping  roses  all  the  time? 

Men ;    bring    me    men    and    torches   and    sharp 

spears — 
A  boat  to  cut  the  Centaur's  rudder-ropes— 
I  will  go  down  and  take  him  back  .  .  .  Hui  .  .  . 
She  szveeps  out  followed  by  Barsine. 

Danae. 

O,  Sophron,  out  by  the  land!    Nay,  he  knows 

more — 
And  she,  and  she;  watch-towers  divide  this  earth. 
Horses  go  here;  and  he  may  save  a  ship. 

She  draws  aside  the  curtain  to  look  beyond. 

May  women's  skirts  impede  you,  ravening  queen. 

She  ascends  siviftly  to  the  colonnade:  a 

starry  night  shows  her  form  dimly. 

Fishers'  small  lights,  be  drenched— you  show  too 

much 
At  height  of  settling  gulls  above  the  water  .   .   . 
Ah  ...  h,   nothing,   nothing.    Something  will 

not  happen. 
And  let  this  life  go  on  again.  Nothing. 
Yet  ...  yet  ...  the  air  is  beating  on  my  temples 
As  though  a  rabble  murmured  beyond  hearing. 

Rhodogune  enters. 

Rhodogune. 
Danae,  are  you  here? 

1 88 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 
Danae.  I  am  here. 

RlIODOGUNi:. 

Where  is  the  Oueen? 

DaiNAE.  Nearuig  the  shore  by  now. 

RnODOGUNE. 

I  have  a  drunken  woman  with  nine  snakes 
That  follow  her  as  freshets  a  drowned  body, 
Then  lift  wise  sibilant  heads  in  guardian  swaying ; 
Her  lair  could  well  be  traced  by  emptied  streets. 
She  is  too  drunk  to  speak,  but  sings  the  better 
A  praise  of  poisonous  snakes  and  the  fools  of  wine. 
While   in   the  night  they  circle  and    streak   for 

answer 
Likewine-cups'  linesof  light,  black  rubies'gleams. 
Shall  I  not  bring  her  for  the  Queen  to  use. 
Who  loves  delights  like  dangers  come  too  near? 

Danae. 

Put  her  away  in  a  safe  place  till  morning — 
The  Queen  is  smouldering  again  to-night, 
And, 7f  she  sees  your  epileptic  mummer. 
Will  make  us  tie  her  up  with  her  own  serpents.  .  .  . 
Babble  no  more  to  me— I  must  be  watching. 

Rhodogune. 

You  are  not  the  Queen,  although  the  Queen's 

plaything; 
Deign  not  your  high  commandments  unto  us. 

She  goes  out. 

Danae. 

Sophron,  your  bare  grand  neck's  a  taw^iy  pillar 

189 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

To  lean  a  cheek  against  in  burning  noons  ; 
Your  careless  eyes  look  deeplier  than  you  know; 
You  must  be  kept  in  life.  .  .  .  Down  there,  down 

there 
Is  something  darker,  swifter  than  the  sea.  .  .  . 
An  unseen  smoky  glare  is  mirrored  now.   .   .   . 
That  was  his  boat:  he  is  gone.   .   .  .  Sophron, 

Sophron ! 
The  sea  is  suddenly  empty — and  all  places. 
I  have  given  him  to  mine  enemies.    She'll  not 

kill  him. 
Now  I  must  waken  and  repent  my  dreams: 
Ay,  Sophron,  get  you  gone — I  am  whole  again; 
I  am  the  Queen's — and  O,  farewell,  farewell. 

She  descends  the  stair  slowly. 
I  am  the  Queen's  indeed.    Is  she  yet  mine? 
Ditizele — 

A  Voice,  from  within  the  cedar  lattice. 
Who  is  it  calls  me? 

Danae.  Danae. 

The  Voice.  Yes? 

Danae. 

The  queen  has  spoilt  my  rose — throw  me  a  young 
one. 

A  rosebud  falls  front  the  lattice:  Danae 
sets  it  in  her  hair. 
Thanks,  dear.  .  .  .  She  has  put  up  my  hair  awry — 
It  will  remind  her  she  put  up  my  hair. 

She  shakes  down  her  hair  and  knots  it 
again y  holding  the  rose-stalk  in  her 
month  until  she  can  replace  it. 
These  Asiatic  nights  ruin  the  hair, 

190 


L  A  O  D  I  C  K     AND     D  A  N  A  H 

Their  humid  heat  puts  out  its  inner  lights — 
Mine  waves  with  gleams  no  more  than  manes  of 

Iran  .  .  . 
Now  she  has  left  the  shore — now  she  will  set 
Her  feet  upon  the  stairs  like  setting  of  teeth,  .  .  . 
The  child  cries  a  little  once:  Danae  goes 
to  it. 
O,  baby,  the  old  silence  of  palaces 
Is  settling  on  you  steadily.    Your  crying 
Is  shut  within — and  shall  be  farther  enclosed. 
One  light  small  cry  shows  all  so  much  too  quiet. 

Laodice,  toJio  has  entered  noiselessly  and  come 

close  beliind  Danai-;. 
Ay,  do  you  consort  with  mine  enemies? 

Danae,  wailing. 

Ah  .  .  .  Ah  ...  I  sickened  with  the  secret  thing, 

The  too  faint  sound  that  crept  about  my  neck. 

Laodice,  slipping  an  arm  about  her. 

Nay,  Rose-Locks,  calm  thy  heart;  I  did  but  tease 

Thy  mothering  this  lost  child,  kings'  waif  and 

surplus. 
Rare  nurses  his  :  the  next  will  be  the  last : 
Some  treachery  will  ever  draw  toward  him. 
Rest  you  again  upon  the  Persian  couch, 
And  I  will  sit  with  you  and  comfort  you. 

Leading  her  to  the  divan. 
Do  not  forget  the  cherishing  of  a  queen: 
I  could  not  catch  your  Sophron  for  you,  child. 


Danae. 

)t  want  him  :  lu 

191 


I  did  not  want  him:  he  is  better  gone. 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

Laodice. 

Yet  such  delight  to  lead  him  to  your  arms: 

You  said  you  looked  at  him  almost  penitently. 

Danae. 

Madam,  you  mock  me;  I  have  passed  from  him. 

Laodice. 

Yes,  yes  ;  but  rapture,  for  your  mind  severe, 

Lies  in  the  nearness  of  wise  and  powerful  men — 

As  once  for  famous  high  Leontion, 

That  philosophic  courtesan  your  mother. 

Let  be;  but  tell  me  of  his  quietest  scheme. 

Danae. 

I  know  him  not:   I  never  knew  his  mind. 

Severalivomcn  appear  dimly  at  the  latticed 
windoivs  and  the  gallery. 

Laodice. 

Ah,  well  ...  I  am  tired,  and  it  is  your  dear  turn 
To  open  your  arms.    Hold  me  and  I  will  nestle, 
Will  murmur  for  you  to  hear  along  your  neck. 
What  shall  we  do  to-morrow,  Danae? 

Danae. 

Fair  mistress,  I  can  dance  for  you  to-morrow. 

Laodice. 

Yes,  but  my  dainty  cannot  dance  all  day — 

She  must  have  long,  long  quiet  for  her  thoughts. 

Danae. 

Then  shall  I  wing  the  bright  and  silken  birds 
About  the  border  of  your  Persian  mantle? 

192 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

Laodice. 

How  should  I  do  without  you  so  many  hours? 

Danae. 

Your  Parthian  has  a  witch  of  snakes  for  you — 

Laodice. 

I  can  charm  snakes  and  even  pith  their  fangs. 

Danae. 

This  is  a  rare  one  and,  if  she  is  drunken, 
Does  uncouth  things  deUcious  to  the  senses. 
Steep  in  her  wine  the  herb  that  makes  insane — 

Laodice. 

The  herb.  .  .  .  ? 

Danae. 

The  viscous  plant  that  grows  i'  your  chamber 
Strange  longer  serpents  shall  be  swiftly  snared 
And  mixt  untamed  with  hers,  for  you  to  read 
Her  gaping  and  ridiculous  tragedy 
As  the  cold  perils  sober  her  to  pallor. 

Laodice. 

It  is  not  novel:  with  a  secret  call 

I  have  turned  snakes  upon  such  things  before. 

I  am  learned  and  I  need  some  graver  pang — 

Something  as  unsuspected  as  to  tell  you 

That  I  had  poisoned  you  three  hours  ago, 

And  see  you  disbelieve — begin  to  believe. 

DANAii. 

But  you  did  not. 

193  o 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

Laodice.  There  is  the  disbelief. 

A  pause. 
If  I  had  done  so  I  should  here  avouch 
I  could  not  do  it — then  await  a  sign. 

Danae. 

Ah,  I  am  yours.  .  .  .  You  have  not  doomed  me  yet. 
Queen  with  the  wells  of  night  for  human  eyes, 
Let  us  descend  upon  the  sea  to-morrow. 
Rule  your  own  kingdom  by  your  cedarn  barge: 
We  will  recline  together,  hushed  as  here — 
Save  for  the  waters'  converse  just  beneath, 
Permeant  as  my  pulse  veiled  by  your  cheek. 

Laodice. 

I  am  uneasy  now  and  should  disturb  you — 

And  thence  your  restlessness  would    chafe   me 

more. 
I  must  make  sure  that  you  will  lie  quite  still: 
May  I  so  still  you?  Then  you  shall  to  sea. 
We'll  sail  about  the  limit  of  the  lands 
Until  you  reach  the  river  of  Babylon. 

Danae. 

So  much  in  one  rapt  day? 

The  days  of  life  can  never  compass  that. 

Laodice. 

Not  in  a  day,  but  in  a  day  and  night : 
Conceive  the  night,  my  Danae,  the  night — 
It  is  the  natural  state  of  being  and  space, 
Briefly  interrupted  by  casual  suns. 
Much  unknown  empires  are  attained  in  night — 
Perhaps  not  Babylon,  yet  far  enough. 
One  night  can  be  a  very  proper  length. 

194 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

Danae. 

You  mean  that  I  am  poisoned  after  all. 

Laodice. 

Indeed,  my  Danae,  it  is  not  so. 

In  this  barbaric  land,  this  bright  harsh  dye-pot, 

Peopled  by  camels  and  cynocephali 

And  hairy  men  of  soiled  uncertain  hue, 

O,  do  you  not  remember  nights  of  Athens 

Built  well  about  with  marbles  and  clear  skies, 

Wherein  your  mother  and  such  noble  women 

Conversed  with  poets  and  heroes  in  lit  groves, 

And  life  subtled?  Have  you  not  longed  for  them? 

I  am  sending  you  to  such  a  farther  country, 

Away  from  this  shrunk  mummy  of  live  earth. 

Danae. 

Madam,  I  know  you  not — when  must  I  leave  you? 

Laodice,  clapping  her  hands. 

It  is  the  hour,  and  you  shall  launch  to-night. 

Women,  women,  come  hither  every  woman. 

The  faces    disappear  from    the    upper 
zvindows:   eleven  iwmen  appear  on 
the  colonnade y  some  from  each  side, 
and  descend  the  stair  rapidly. 
Get  to  your  knees  about  us — both  knees. 
Stand  up,  my  Danae,  be  overbearing. 
Women,  w^hen  any  woman  has  a  kingdom 
And  is  a  regnant  being,  does  it  not  suit 
That  in  the  disposition  of  her  state 
Women  should  figure  her  and  power  afar? 
This  kingdom  I  control  has  thrones  of  cities. 
So  many  that  I,  when  I  would  sit  therein, 
Must  cast  my  shadow  there  :  and  chief  of  these 

195 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

Is  Babylon  the  nest  of  bygone  things. 
'Tis  to  that  Babylon  I  now  appoint 
My  bosom's  clasp,  my  Danae,  for  satrap  ; 
She  shall  oppress  among  dead  queens  and  gods, 
Keep  house  where  sheer  dominion  walks,  com- 
mand 
Enamelled  palaces  with  copper  roofs. 
Pillars  with  gardens  for  their  pediments — 
Staircase  for  Anakim  in  Babylon: 
And  when  ye  are  as  dear  to  me  as  she 
Ye  shall  advance  upon  such  larger  ways. 

Danae. 

O,  what  is  this  you  do?    I  am  lost  in  it. 

A  Woman. 

But  how?   The  duplicate  queen  holds  Babylon. 

Laodice. 

It  shall  be  mine  again  ere  Danae's  advent.  .  .  . 

Danae,  sister  of  pearls,  do  I  displease  you? 

Danae. 

Tell  out  your  purpose,  though  I  wreck  by  it. 

Laodice. 

Could  higher  estate  persuade  such  disbelief? 
Barsine,  now  disburden  of  its  store 
The  old  brass  coffer  in  my  inner  house — 
The  gems,  the  flower-striped  silks,  the  mousse- 
lines 
Worn  by  such  royal  girls  of  Babylon ; 
So  rare  a  satrap  as  we  do  devise 
Must  be  as  Babylonish  as  her  earth. 

Barsine  goes  out. 
196 


LAO  DICE     AND     DANAE 

Put  out  your  hand,  young  princess,  dip  your  hand 
Among  these  herded  common  indiscretions. 
And  gratefully  they'll  mouth  it.  Nay,  I'll  lead  you. 

ShXOND  Woman. 

Madam,  remember  me  when  you  are  mighty. 

Third  Woman. 

And,  O,  forget  not  me. 

Laodick. 

Arise,  you  humbled  ones,  jealous  too  long; 
Take  off  her  Greekish  marks  of  my  poor  service, 
Make  ready  her  precious  body  to  be  tangled 
In  clotted  skeins  of  her  affiliate  province. 

The  -women  strip  Danae  of  all  but  her 
under-robe. 

0  friend,  I  do  reproach  you,  for  your  gay  heart 
Has  surely  turned  from  me  too  easily 

When  something  in  you  fades  and  alters  so  .  .  . 

1  have  done  this — my  cherished,  still  keepmine.  .  . 

Barsine  enters^  her  arms  heaped  itnth 
robes:  Laodice Jmgers  them. 
These  are  your  pretties.  Greeks  know  not  how  to 

use 
Layers  of  denial — you  Persian,  can  you  say? 

Barsine,  attiring  Danae  in  the  neio  garments. 
These  silken  trousers  tied  above  the  knees, 
Yet  falling  to  the  feet,  are  first. 

Laodice.  Ay,  so. 

Barsine. 

And  now  this  inner  gown  shrinks  close. 

197 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

Laodice.  Ay,  so. 

Barsine. 

Then  this  brocady  robe  with  fan-flung  train 

And  widening  muffling  sleeves. 

Laodice,  holding  up  a  sleeve.       Can  it  be  so? 
Pure  Greeks  conceive  not  slavery  of  sleeves. 

Barsine. 

The  pointed  citron  shoes. 

Laodice.  Not  even  sandals? 

Barsine. 

There  needs  a  shawl  like  gardens  for  a  girdle, 

But  none  was  hoarded. 

Laodice.  Put  your  own  on  her. 

Give  me   the  jewels:    I   wish   to   play   with   the 
jewels. 

Barsine. 

In  the  horn  sphere:  press  on  the  metal  hands. 
The  strings  of  golden  tears  and  yellow  stones 
Hang  hidy  in  the  hair.    I  will  unbind 
Your  lady's  locks  and  shew  you. 

Laodice.  Keep  off:  I  must  unloose  them. 

It  is  my  custom. 

Danae,  m  a  low  voice.      O,  what  are  you  doing? 

Barsine. 

Round  to  the  temples,  so:  this  drops  upon  the 
brow  .  .  . 

198 


LAO  DICE     AND     DANAE 

That   breast   of    gold — pierced    roses,    diamond 

dew — 
Curves  on  the  head,  no  heavier  than  your  hand  .  .  . 
Coils  chinie   upon    the   ankles — the   East   walks 

slowly. 

Laodice. 

We  come  to  the  necklace. 

Barsinp:.  Yes,  but  it  is  lacking, 

Laodicf:,  /o  the  Second  Woman. 

You  white-faced  marvel,  body  of  straight  lines, 

Give  me  your  necklace  dropt  inside  your  chiton. 

Second  Woman. 

O,  do  you  see  it?    I  cannot  let  it  go — 
It  was  my  sister's,  and  she  is  dead  since.   .   .   . 
Ah  .   .   h  .  .   . 

Laodice,  snatcJiiuf;  the  neckhice  roughly. 
'Tis  well  for  you  it  did  not  strangle  you 
When  caught:  but  ye  are  all  so  envious  yet. 
There,  Danae,  my  hands  shall  finish  you. 
A  painted  wonder  this  I  have  created — 
I  am  no  better  than  the  rest  before  it. 
And  I  will  do  my  homage,  knees  and  lips. 

Danae,  faintly. 

What  is  the  end,  ah  me! 

Laodice.  But  in  true  Asia 

Great  ladies  must  live  veiled;  they  are  too  choice 
For  foreign  casual  sight. 

Barsine,  veiling  Danae.      This  is  the  veil. 

199 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

Laodice,  peeping  behind  the  veil. 
Bound  so  beneath  the  eyes?  Show  sHpper-tips? 
Indeed  you  are  ended,  Danae,  and  shall  part. 
Farewell  !     Farewell  !     Fare    delicately  !      Fare 

swiftly ! 
Will  you  go  down  by  Ephesus,  my  rose; 
Or  all  the  sea? 

First  Woman.    Not  Babylon  by  sea! 

Laodice. 

If  not  to  Babylon,  yet  far  enough. 

Tie  up  these  arms  and  bind  these  feet  together ; 

Bear  to  the  columns  and  cast  her  forth  to  sea, 

Where  she  shall  be  my  satrap  of  the  darkness. 

She  has  been  dying  many  moments  now, 

She  shall  have  burial  as  one  who  ceases 

In  a  strange  ship,  unfriended  on  the  deeps. 

The  women  laugh. 

First  Woman. 

Joy — but  wherewith,  O  Light? 

Laodice.  Your  sandal-thongs: 

You  are  good  enough  to  obey  me  on  bare  feet. 

Several  of  the  women  hastily  untie  their 
sandals. 

Fourth  Woman,  kneeling  to  bind  DANAE's/eeA 
Forget  not  me  to  heel,  my  mighty  lady. 

Various  Women,  clustering  about  Danae  and 

seizing  her. 
Come  on,  come  on  to  Babylon,  dread  Madam.  .  .  . 
Up  and  down  to  Babylon,  cold  Highness.   .  .   . 
I'll  be  her  coiffing  slave  and  tend  her  head.  .  .  . 

200 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 


I'll  be  her  nurse  and  hold  her  in  my  breast.  .  .  . 
More  humbly  1  will  take  her  feet  in  mine.  .  .  . 
What  honour  to  be  trusted  with  such  life — 
A  priceless  load.  .  .  .  Ah,  do  not  let  it  fall.  .  .  . 

Danae,  to  Laodice. 

Yet  I  have  served  you  well. 

Laodice.  Yea,  very  well. 

Whereto  did  Sophron  flee? 

Danae.  I  do  not  know. 

Laodice. 

Tell  me  why  Sophron  fled,  and  what  he  knew. 

A  pause. 
Tell  even  where  your  thoughts  are  following  him. 

A  pause. 
Even  at  what  point  of  my  research  in  him 
Your  heart  lifted,  and  i  will  keep  you  back. 

A  pause. 
Then  are  you  both  completed  and  concluded. 
Knot  elbows  too,  and  lift  her  to  the  columns. 

Danae. 

Yet  I  have  loved  you. 

Laodice. 

You  are  not  mine:  this  earth  shall  not  contain 

you. 
I  could  unmake  the  stars  to  ensure  darkness. 
To  cheat  me  of  the  places  that  have  known  you. 

Danae. 

Must  I  go  out? 

201 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

Then  pay  me  for  my  spent  devotion  first. 

Let  not  these  spittly  weeds  close  in  and  choke 

me; 
Undrape  these  silk  and  Asiatic  jeers; 
Let  me  go  loose,  and  I  will  go  indeed 
As  far  as  your  desire — serving  you  yet. 

Laodice,  severing'  Danae's  bonds  xvith  her  dagger^ 
then  rending  aivay  her  veil  and  upper  gar- 
ments. 

Your  rigid  mortal  bonds,   .   .   . 

Your  isolating  veil,   .   ,   . 

Your  scarf  of  earthly  flowers,   .   .   . 

Your  robe  that  once  was  royal,  .   .   . 

Your  chill,  worn-out  simarre. 

Slide  as  the  world  slides.   .  .  . 

Put  off  your  useless  shoes 

To  enter  a  holy  place.   .  .   . 

Get  to  your  high  estate. 

Danae,  standing  in  her  under-garment. 
Gather  your  jewels. 

Laodice.  You  trifle  to  gain  moments. 

Danae. 

Give  me  one  kiss. 

Laodice.         You  have  not  time.    These  wait. 

Indicating  the  surrounding  women. 

Danae. 

Your  house  shall  be  the  firmer  by  your  sentence. 
She  takes  t/ie  sleeping  child  in  her  arms, 
and  mounts  the  stair  quickly. 
202 


L  A  O  D I  C  E     AND     D  A  N  A  E 

S  i: V  i<: R /\  L  Wo m  i-: n  . 

The  child;  she  has  the  cliikl. 

Laodice.  Yes.   And  then? 

D/VNAii,  pausing  by  a  column. 

The  common  run  of  men  make  small  account 

Of  hii^li  religion;  and  they  are  very  right. 

I  saved  my  lover,  and  I  now  receive 

This  recognition  from  the  Powers  who  still 

Dispose  of  us:   Laodice  killed  hers, 

And  she  is  held  deserving  of  all  that  honour. 

Laodick,  pointing  at  the  Fourth  Woman. 
Thrust  her  down,  you. 

Danae   disappears    while   the   Fourth 
Woman  stealthily  mounts  the  stair. 
Laodick  has  thromn  herself  on  the 
divan,  ivit/i  her  back  to  the  colonnade. 
To-morrow  will  be  soon. 
To-morrow  I  will  sit  with  men  in  council, 
And  muster  men  to  leaguer  Ephesus. 
These  fretting  hens,  these  women,  burden  me — 
I  know  their  eyes  too  well;  let  them  keep  hid. 
To-morrow  I  will  walk  upon  the  harbour. 
And  board  my  ships  and  see  them  manned  and 

ready — 
No,  no,  I  will  not  step  toward  the  sea.  .  .  . 

Several  Women,  as  Laodice  speaks. 

Ai !  Ai !  Is  she  down?  Not  yet.   .  .  . 
I  cannot  see.   .  .  .   No  one  can  see. 

Second  Woman,  sobbing  in  the  corner  near  the 
stair.  My  necklace 

Save  my  dear  gems! 

203 


LAODICE     AND     DANAE 

Fourth  Woman, /row  the  colonnade. 

She  is  not  here.    She  falls. 

Laodice. 

Is  that  hoarse  dashing  how  the  surge  receives 
her? 

Fourth  Woman. 

It  is  the  old  recession  of  the  waves; 

The  rocks  are  bare.   No  movement  could  be  seen  ; 

No  pallor  could  emerge.  There  is  no  sound. 

Laodice,  in  a  dull  voice. 

She  was  as  false  as  all  the  rest  of  you ; 

But  she  was  brave.    Remember  that  she  died; 

Be  cowards  still,  and  so  be  false  and  safe. 

She  had  a  lulling  hand.  .  .  .  Put  me  to  sleep. 

Rhodogune  goes  toward  her. 


Curtain. 


204 


APPENDICES 


APPENDIX  A 


"  KING  LEAR'S  WIFE  "  was  performed  for  the  first 
time  on  25  September  191 5  at  the  Birming-ham  Reper- 
tory Theatre,  with  the  following-  cast: 


Lear    , 

Hygd 

Goneril 

Cordeil 
Merry  n 
Gormflaith 
Physician 

Two  Elderly  Women  . 


Mr.  E.  Ion  Swinley. 

Miss  Cathleen  Orford. 

Miss  Marg-aret  Chatwin. 

Miss  Betty  Pinchard. 

Miss  Dorothy  Taylor. 

Miss  Mary  Merrall. 

Mr.  Ivor  Barnard. 
fMiss  Betty  Pinchard. 
\Miss  Maud  Gill. 


Costumes  and  decoration  desig^ned  by  Mr.  Barry 
V.  Jackson. 

Production  by  Mr.  John  Drinkwater. 

In  the  course  of  the  production  the  song-  of  the 
Elder  Woman,  toward  the  close  of  the  play,  was  fitted 
with  so  appropriate  a  melody,  by  a  fortunate  modi- 
fication of  a  folk-tune,  that  it  seems  well  to  continue 
the  connexion  by  printings  the  arrang-ement  here. 

207 


APPENDICES 


V 


:^^a^ 


E:^=s 


Rather  quickly. 


P-^P- 


^^ 


^=^: 


q^-qs^^S: 


:i=:^St 


:^: 


g 


The  louse  made  off    un  -  hap-py  and  wet  — A  - 


humm,    A-liumm,  A  -  hee —     He's   look-ing  for  us,    the 


'-■^^ 


^     ^     N     I 


^^^^S^L^E^^i^E^feE^E^E^; 


lit-tle    pet;  So  haste,  for  her  chin's  to     tie    up  yet,  And 
B  C 


^   J  J  J ^- 


V-^-J-4i- 


:S=^i.=^ 


i^-=^-=^-X-X^V:i=i- 


^=itl: 


let  us  be  gone  with  what  we  can  get — Her  ring  for  thee,  her 


:^: 


^-■^■=^- 


:^: 


gown      for     Bet,      Her      pock  -  et  turned  out       for 

#  *  Coda.  ^ 


This  represents  the  extension  of  the  melody  used 
for  the  final  stanza  of  the  song:  it  can  be  adapted  to 
the  forms  of  the  first  and  second  stanzas  by  the  omis- 
sion of  the  sections  A-C  and  B-C  respectively.  The 
Coda  is  intended  for  use  with  the  final  stanza  only. 


208 


APPENDICES 


First  performed  in  London  on  ig  May  igi6  at  His 
Majesty's  Theatre,  under  the  direction  of  Miss  Viola 
Tree. 


Mr.  Murray  Carrington. 

Lady  Tree. 

Miss  Viola  Tree. 

Miss  Odette  Goimbault. 

Miss  Julia  James. 

Miss  Beatrice  Wilson. 

Mr.  H.  A.  Saintsbury. 
fMiss  Ada  King-. 
I^Miss  Bertha  Fordyce. 

Play  produced  byMr.  JohnDrinkwater,  and  mounted 
hy  Mr.  Purcell  Jones:  music  by  Mr.  Ivor  Novello. 


Lear    . 

Hy^'d  . 

Goneril 

Cordeil 

Gormilaith 

Merry  n 

Physician 

Two  Elderly  Wo 


nen 


SONGS 
For  the  London  performance  of  '*  King  Lear's  Wife." 

I  (p.  43) 
Mother,  it  is  my  wedding  morn. 
Come,  bring  the  linen  fine, 
And  wash  my  face  w  ith  milk  so  warm 
Drawn  from  the  young  white  kine. 
The  blackbird  in  the  apple-tree 
Was  waking  ere  the  day ; 
But  I  was  ready  sooner  than  he, 
For  I  watched  the  night  away. 

II  (p.  44) 
The  Queen  has  gone  to  bed 
In  the  middle  of  the  day; 
But  what  about  her  bedfellow? 
No  one  dares  to  say. 

She  cannot  sleep  at  night : 
She  does  not  care  to  try  ; 
The  darkness  makes  her  restless, 
And  nobody  knows  why. 

209  P 


APPENDICES 

III  (p.  48) 

O,  merry,  merry  will  my  heart  be 
When  I  can  sit  me  down  and  rest  : 
It  you  would  live  to  make  old  bones 
Keep  your  knees  off  the  kitchen-stones, 
And  go  like  a  lady,  warmly  drest. 


210 


APPENDIX  R 

"THE  CRIER  BY  NIGHT"  was  first  performed  by 
Mr.  Stuart  Walker's  Portmanteau  Theatre  Company 
in  Wyoniini^,  U.S.A.,  in  September  ujiT),  and  in  New 
York  at  the  Princess  Theatre  on  i8  December  1916, 
with  the  following'  cast : 

Hialti         .  .  .  Mr.  McKay  Morris. 

Thorgerd  .  .         .  Miss  Judith  Lowry. 

BlaniVl        .  .  .  Miss  Florence  Buckton. 

An  Old,  Strange  Man  Mr.  Edgar  Stehli. 

Play  produced  by  Mr.  Stuart  Walker  and  mounted 
by  Mr.  W.  J.  Zimmerer. 


21 1 


SOME  PRESS  OPIMONS  OF 

KING  LEAR'S  WIFE  and  other  plays. 
1920.  4to.  With  binding  design  by  Charles 
Ricketts.  Pp.209,  i5-f.net.  {Out  of  print.) 
A  special  edition  of  50  copies  signed  by  the 
author,  in  white  and  gold  binding.  31.9.  6rf. 
net.    {Out  of  print.) 


Mr.  Lascelles  Abercrombie  (Lecturer  in  Poetry  at  the 
Llniversity  of  Liverpool)  in  T/ic  Liverpool  Daily 
Post  and  Mcrniry. 

This  volume  has  been  long  overdue.  It  was  the  great  good 
fortune  of  "  Georgian  Poetry  "  that  it  was  permitted  to  give 
this  remarl<able  tragedy  of  "'King  Lear's  Wife  "  to  tlie  world, 
and  thus  to  have  the  privilege  of  pioneering  Mr.  l^otlomiey's 
reputation  among  those  who  are  unable  to  do  much  experi- 
mental reading.  It  was  obviously  not  only  a  dramatic  poem 
but  an  actable  plav;  so  actable,  indeed,  that  it  had  the  extra- 
ordinary fortune  of  being  acted ;  and  what  was  perhaps  even 
more  remarkable  of  a  poetic  play  nowadays,  it  showed  itself 
capable  of  being  acted  precisely  and  entirely  as  it  had  been 
written,  the  technique  of  the  poet  contriving  to  be,  with  ri 
completeness  not  to  be  paralleled  anywhere  to-day  except  in 
Italy,  simultaneously  the  technique  of  the  playwright. 

The  otiier  plays  co'ntained  in  this  volume  are  still  to  be  staged. 
They  would  certainly  be  not  less  effective  than  "King  Lear's 
Wife"  .  .  .  the  cunning  elaboration  of  supernaturaiism  in  "The 
Crier  by  Night  "  and  "The  Riding  to  Lithend,"  its  combination 
in  the  former  with  the  elemental  humanities,  in  the  latter  with 
vivid  characterand  strangely  heroic  passion  ;  the  deft  lucidityof 
"  Laodice  and  Danae,"  which  might  serve  as  a  type  of  tlramatic 
suspense  passing  at  the  exact  moment  into  inevitable  catas- 
trophe: these  things,  one  would  think,  should  be  eminentl}' 
practical  politics  for  the  theatre.    Ifany  manager  wants  plays 


SOME     PRESS     OPINIONS 

n  which  exciting  action  is  at  the  same  time  profound  signifi- 
cance, here  they  are. 

However,  we  are  only  able  to  speculate  on  this  aspect  of 
Mr.  Bottomley's  work.  But  we  can  console  ourselves  by  simply 
reading  the  plays  as  poetry.  ...  In  the  days  when  theurgy  was 
still  an  honourable  profession,  Apollonius  of  Tyana  said 
"  Knowing  what  people  say  is  nothing;  I  know  what  people 
don't  say."  That  might  be  put  as  motto  for  such  poetry  as 
Mr.  Bottomley  writes.  It  is  the  art  of  exhibiting  realities. 
What  people  don't  say  is  what  they  really  are;  and  they  don't 
say  it  because  they  can't  get  hold  of  it.  But  he  can,  and  he  can 
make  them  say  it  .  .  .  they  speak  and  act  as  unconstrainedly 
as  the  folk  of  the  ever3^day  world ;  yet  every  word  and  every 
gesture  is  a  flashing  revelation  of  spiritual  destiny.  And  not  only 
men  and  women,  but  nature  also:  tarns  and  mountains,  winds 
and  the  night,  trees  and  stars — of  these,  too,  Mr.  Bottomley 
"  knows  what  they  don't  say." 

To  the  technical  beauty  of  Mr.  Bottomley's  poetry  I  have  not 
alluded.  It  is  extraordinary ;  but,  as  in  all  great  poetry,  it  is 
no  more  than  the  sign  that  the  reality  of  things  is  being 
successfully  exhibited. 

Mr.  John  Drinkwater  in  "The  Nature  of  Drama" 
("  Prose  Papers":  London,  Elkin  Mathews,  1917, 
p.  220). 

I  do  say  that  the  capital  power  of  the  commercialised  theatre 
in  England  to-day  is  so  great  that  it  has  been  able  to  impose 
its  standard  on  nearly  all  the  people  who  are  habitually  in  con- 
tact with  its  merchandise  ...  so  that  one  piece  of  catchpenny 
insincerity  after  another  is  extolled  by  what  passes  for  expert 
opinion  as  a  valuable  contribution  to  the  great  art  of  the 
dramatist,  while  a  piece  of  work  like  Mr.  Gordon  Bottomley's 
"  King  Lear's  Wife,"  which  .  .  .  is  for  vigour  of  imagination, 
poetic  eagerness,  and  dramatic  passion  not  to  be  excelled  by 
anything  that  has  been  put  on  to  the  English  stage  since  the 
Elizabethans,  is  met  with  a  clamour  of  ignorance  ...  in  most 
cases  (1915-16)  we  find  no  standard  whatever  being  brought  to 
the  judgment  of  an  original  work  of  art  other  than  a  spurious 
morality. 

Solomon  Eagle  in  The  Outlook. 

The  various  societies  which  desire  to  regenerate  the  theatre 
talk  a  good  deal  about  the  poetic  drama  of  the  future,  but 
they  do  not  seem  to  take  much  trouble  to  find  it.  .  .  .  Of 
Mr.  Gordon   Bottomley's  fine  plays  only  one,  to  the  best  of  my 

214 


SOME     PRESS     OPINIONS 

knowledge,  has  yet  been  produced  in  this  coiintn'.  .  .  .  There 
is  certainly  the  possibility  of  a  great  play  in  their  author,  and 
one  at  least  of  them  is  better  than  any  play  in  verse  which  has 
been  staged  for  many  years,  and  is  likely  to  live  longer  than 
most  of  the  so-called  masterpieces  of  our  time.  If  "Midsummer 
Eve"  had  been  by  Claude),  or  "The  Riding  to  Lithend  "  by 
some  German  (a  most  unlikely  supposition)  all  the  coteries 
would  have  been  talking  about  them  years  ago.  .   .  . 

"  Midsummer  Eve  "  is  original,  and  the  work  of  a  poet.  .  .  . 
There  is  fine  meditative  poetry  in  it,  poetry,  moreover,  not 
grafted  or  glued  on  to  its  main  structure,  but  growing  out  of 
the  dialogue  naturally,  in  an  inevitable  manner.  ..."  Laodice 
and  Danae  "  is  equally  good  reading,  and  it  is  dramatic.  But 
none  of  these  pla^•s  is  equal  to  the  two  latest,  "  The  Riding  to 
Lithend"  and  "  King  Lear's  Wife."  ... 

Enough  has  been  written  about  the  grimness  of  "King  Lear's 
Wife,"  the  fine  bursts  of  poetry  in  it,  and  the  remarkable 
character  of  Goneril.  ..."  The  Riding  to  Lithend"  is,  up  to 
the  present,  the  best  of  Mr.  Bottomley's  plays;  and  its  superi- 
ority is  a  superioritv  which,  I  think,  would  be  still  moreevident 
on  the  stage  than  it  is  in  print.  ...  It  comes  straight  out  of  an 
old  tale ;  the  characters  are  recreated  and  enriched.  .  .  .  The 
diction  is,  as  a  rule,  perfect  in  its  propriety  and  often  striking  in 
its  beauty.  And,  above  all,  Gunnar  is  a  hero,  his  fight  a  heroic 
fight,  his  courage,  his  generosity,  his  humanity  (a  few  sentences 
to  wife  and  hound  are  wonderfullj-  chosen),  and  even  his 
weaknesses  are  such  as  to  move  the  heart.  His  fall  is  like  the 
fall  of  all  noble  and  fighting  things;  the  sense  of  defeat  comes 
with  it,  but  above  that  a  feeling  of  exultation.  On  the  stage  the 
end,  I  fancy,  would  be  profoundly  moving,  and  the  fight  excit- 
ing to  a  degree,  though  there  is  no  obvious  rhodomontade 
about  it. 

Mr.  John  Freeman  in  The  Bookman. 

This  comel)-  volume  at  last  makes  public  what  has  been  too 
long  a  fugitive  and  cloistered  pleasure.  .  .  .  These  five  plays 
show  the  author  in  the  most  powerful  exercise  of  his  faculties. 
Imagination  here  is  free  and  moves  with  growing  ease,  music 
enlarges  like  a  splendid  wind  through  the  verse  ;  and  the 
common  reproach  of  mere  "poetic  plays"  has  been  avoided  in 
these,  where  character  and  action  develope  as  surely  as  music 
itself.  Gordon  Bottomley  has  remembered  that  his  plays  can 
have  no  life  except  in  the  activity  of  his  characters.  .  .  .  Fine 
careless  raptures  alone  will  not  produce  a  play  like  "  The 
Rilling  to  Lithend"  .  .  .  you  may  quote  almost  any  lines  from 
this  tierce  Icelantlic  play  and  find  tiiat  what  you  are  reading  is 


SOME     PRESSOPINIONS 


vital  and  essential  to  the  expression  of  character  and  action. 
And  in  this  poetry,  too  .  .  .  the  beautiful  images  flow  in  and 
out  with  the  ease  of  light  on  water;  the  rhythms  have  the 
natural  movement  of  thought,  and  the  secret  discipline  of 
masculine  habit.  "King  Lear's  Wife"'  will  be  familiar  to  many 
readers,  but  to  others  it  will  come  with  the  delicious  shock  of 
a  new  creation.  .  .  .  The  new  play  is  a  beam  of  light  crossing 
the  darkness  of  the  old.  Few  passages  of  modern  verse  reach 
the  beaut}- of  Goneril's  hunting-narration;  and  it  is  no  isolated 
beauty. 

Mr.  William  Rose  Ben^t  in  The  Literary  Review  of 
the  New  York  Evening  Post. 

"The  Crier  by  Night"  is  one  of  the  most  powerful  and  eerie 
poetic  dramas  of  the  supernatural  that  have  been  written  in 
the  last  two  decades.  To  me  the  best-known  translations  of 
Maeterlinck  pale  beside  it.  .  .  .  I  hold  "The  Riding  to  Lithend" 
his  greatest  achievement.  To  me  it  is  like  a  piece  of  gorgeous 
tapestry  blurred  by  wood-smoke  and  sea-mist  and  hung  on  a 
granite  wall.  The  dramatic  structure  is  knit  as  compact  as  a 
rock.  Across  the  shimmering  imagery  of  the  diction  blows  a 
chill  and  foreboding  wind  of  the  spirit.  .  .  .  The  verse  is  nobly 
distinguished.  "  King  Lear's  Wife  "  is  also  a  notable  piece  of 
work.  ...  It  possesses  convincing  reality.  .  .  .  Again  the 
dramatic  structure  satisfies  completely.  "  Midsummer  Eve  "  is 
packed  with  fragrant  beauty  .  .  .  that  creeps  around  the 
heart.  .  .  .  The  atmosphere  is  the  important  thing  about  this 
play  and  is  unforgettable.  "  Laodice  and  Danae  "  is  more  usual 
(for  Bottomley,  for  very  few  other  writers),  but  it  is  the 
work  of  a  sure  dramatic  craftsman  with  an  enthralling  tale  to 
tell.  .  .  .  There  is  a  splendid  artistic  austerity  about  his  work 
.  .  .  yet  mixed  with  this  there  is  an  entirely  full-blooded  love 
of  the  earth,  a  delight  in  intensely  human  detail.  .  .  .  He  has 
indeed  displayed  many  gifts  imperishably  bright.  His  name 
should  stand  high  in  the  roster  of  modern  English  verse. 

The  Morning  Post. 

The  rare  beauty  and  distinction  o{  these  works  have  been  un- 
grudgingly acclaimed  by  many  critics,  but  they  have  hitherto 
lacked  that  wider  recognition  for  which  they  are  indubitably 
destined.  .  .  .  But  now  the  bringing  of  them  together  in 
one  volume  permits  us  all  to  appraise  the  quality  of  what  is  the 
most  significant  accomplishment  of  our  Georgians.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  be  impervious  to  the  strength  and  beauty,  knit  together, 
of  these  dramas.   .   .   .   Criticism  may  note  with  admiration  the 

2l6 


SOME     PRESS     OPINIONS 

unerring  skill  of  dramatic  structure  ;  with  delight  the  mastery 
of  laiijfiiajfo,  which  constrains  the  simplest  words  to  the  g-reatest 
needs;  with  wonder  the  reading- of  the  human  heart.  .  .  .  The 
man  who  can  handle  character  and  emotion  with  such  mastery 
both  of  language  and  imagination  is  indeed  a  poet.  .  .  . 
In  Mr.  Rotlomley  the  Georgian  era  has  found  an  authentic 
voice — a  veritable  intei'preter. 

The  Times  Literary  Supplement. 

We  must  honour  the  devoted  writers  who  keep  alive  the 
desire  for  the  poetic  drama,  and  none  more  than  Air.  Gordon 
Bottomley.  ...  He  is  a  poet  and  justifies  his  use  of  poetic 
speech  ;  he  is  eloquent,  incisive,  has  a  blank  verse  of  his  own 
which  he  writes  with  increasing  mastery.  .  .  .  In  "  The  Riding 
to  Lithend"  he  rises  with  his  story.  .  .  .  the  death  of  Gunnar 
is  well  done ;  you  read  it  breathlessly,  for  he  makes  it  the  tleatli 
of  Gunnar  indeed;  and  even  the  slayers  feel  I  lie  greatness  of 
it.  Mr.  Hottomley,  in  a  more  fortunate  age,  might,  we  think, 
have  been  a  dramatic  poet  like  Fletcher;  he  has  Fletcher's 
eloquence  though  not  his  fun,  .  .  .  but  not,  of  course,  P'letcher's 
familiarity  with  ihe  stage.  ...  If  he  had  been  bred  in  the 
theatre,  he  might,  we  think,  have  had  Fletcher's  real  and 
delightful  success. 

John  O'  London's  Weekly. 

The  cumulative  effect  of  a  re-reading  of  Mr.  Bottomley's 
work  is  to  convince  one  that  he  is  a  real  poet  who  can  write 
real  drama.  In  the  matter  of  construction  these  plays  approach 
perfection;  the  building  up  is  masterly,  and  the  verse  is  full  ^>i 
variety  and  imagination.  .  .  .  The  finest  as  drama  is  "  King 
Lear's  Wife,"  though  for  sheer  beauty  and  spiritual  significance 
I  should  be  inclined  to  place  "Midsummer  Eve"  first.  Only 
one  of  these  plays  has  been  acted  in  England.  If  we  had  a  live 
stage  they  would  all  be  acted. 

The  Neii)  Statesman. 

Mr.  Gordon  Bottomley's  play^i  are  good  art.  There  are 
moments  in  "  King  Lear's  Wife"  when  he  approaches  great- 
ness. ...  It  contains  passages  of  very  rare  force,  and  the 
dramatic  power  .  .  .  is  of  a  very  high  quality.  In  this  \^\■A\ 
and  in  "  "I'he  Crier  by  Xight  "  he  recalls  to  us  not  the  late 
Elizabethans  so  much  as  that  strange  uneasy  genius  Thomas 
Lovell  Beddoes.  .  .  .  He  is  a  purer  poet,  dramatically,  than 
was  Beddoes,  and   his  song  has  a  clearer  richer  c|uality,  more 

217 


SOME     PRESS     OPINIONS 

imaginative,  thoug-h  not  quite  so  fantastic ;  but  he  resembles 
Beddoes  in  his  stern  saddened  preoccupations  with  the  passing 
of  mortals.  Few  plays  have  a  greater  unity  of  atmosphere  or 
a  more  boding  one  than  has  "The  Riding  to  Lithend."  In  all 
the  plaj's,  however,  one  finds  a  real  poet  who  is  also  a  real 
dramatist;  there  is  little  of  decoration  in  any  of  the  plays,  and 
nothing  of  that  windy  seasonal  rhetoric  which  is  so  common  in 
some  poetic  plays. 


I.  B.  in  The  Manchester  Gtiardian. 

It  is  an  excellent  thing  that  these  plays,  the  earliest  of  which 
was  published  twenty  years  ago,  should  have  been  brought 
together  and  given  a  new  lease  of  public  life.  .  .  .  It  is  indeed 
ijuite  extraordinary  that,  with  so  much  publishing  of  poetrj' 
during  the  last  few  years,  work  of  such  high  distinction  should 
have  remained  under  cover.  Mr.  Gordon  Bottomley's  art  of 
tragedy,  as  well  as  his  craftsmanship  in  verse,  can  be  seen 
ripening  through  this  series  until  it  comes  to  a  rich  maturity  in 
"  King  Lear's  Wife."  Here  .  .  .  austerity  and  compassion  are 
compounded,  and  so  create  the  tragic  atmosphere  in  which 
small  words  are  big  with  infinite  meaning  and  hints  develope 
the  power  of  hammer-blows.  ...  It  is  the  best  of  the  group, 
and  it  is  significant,  ais  showing  the  inherent  union  between 
nialtcr  and  form,  that  when  the  poet  writes  his  best  play  he 
also  writes  his  best  verse.  .  .  .  He  is  admirably  master  of 
himself  and  of  his  medium. 


Tlic  Spectator. 

Neither  in  the  setting  of  the  scene  of  "  King  Lear's  Wife," 
the  conduct  of  the  story,  or  its  embellishment  and  illustration, 
is  there  a  wasted  word.  .  .  .  But  amid  the  abundance  of  this 
most  rich,  most  ample  of  little  plays,  there  is  surely  nothing — 
nothing,  we  mean,  that  can  be  detached  from  its  setting — that 
surpasses  Goneril's  two  speeches  to  her  mother.  .  .  .  Whether 
Mr.  Gordon  Bottomley — though  calling  his  creations  by  their 
Shakespearean  names  in  his  heart — would  not  have  done  better 
to  call  his  monarch  Cole  or  Cadwallader  in  print  is  a  question 
with  which  controversy  will  probably  long  be  busy.  It  is  a  play 
which  would  not  be  spoiled  if,  in  a  pet,  he  had  called  the  pro- 
tagonists Smith,  Jones,  and  Robinson.  We  recommend  this 
test,  by  the  way,  to  those  who  are  called  upon  to  pronounce 
judgment  upon  the  poetic  drama.  There  is  more  in  it  than 
meets  the  eve. 

2l8 


SOME     PRESS     OPINIONS 

The  London  Mercury. 

It  is  some  years  since  the  public  was  surprised  to  learn  that 
Mr.  C.orilon  Bottoinley  iiad  written  a  prelude  to  "  King'  Lear," 
which  not  only  offered  some  solution  of  the  problems  o'l  that 
work,  but  was  also  in  itself  a  play  of  considerable  beauty, 
oritfinality,  and  power.  This  piece  now  serves  for  the  title  of  a 
volume  of  collected  plays.  .  .  .  It  was  effective  and  moving  on 
the  statue,  and  it  makes  its  effect,  thoug-h  perhaps  a  different 
one,  when  it  is  read  in  the  study.  .  .  .  An  extract  will  serve  to 
illustrate  the  flexible,  elastic,  and  individual  versification.  \Ve 
should  do  wrong^,  however,  if  we  were  to  give  the  impression 
that  his  plays  are  only  for  the  study,  valuable  for  such  passages, 
and  lacking  in  the  iKirder  bones  of  dramatic  merit.  The  action 
is  not  an  excuse  for  decorative  poetry,  but  is  the  immediate  and 
all-important  thing.  .  .  .  These  are  the  creations  of  a  dramatist 
who  has  no  need  of  descriptive  decoration  to  conceal  the  weak- 
ness of  his  prime  conceptions. 

The  Nation. 

The  wave  or  poetic  drama  has  now  ebbed,  and  this  form  is 
practised  very  little  to-day,  lyrical  and  experimental  verse 
having  almost  entirely  supplanted  it.  Mr.  Hottomley's  plays 
are  the  only  ones  which,  with  the  going-out  of  the  tide,  have 
managed  to  escape  its  "  long  withdrawing  roar  "  and  retain  a 
place  on  the  shore.  .  .  .  Without  any  doubt  they  expi-ess  a 
sing-ular  power  of  mysterious  evocation.  .  .  .  They  are  not  at 
alT  vague  and  inchoate— on  the  contrary,  these  towering 
shadows  are  remarkably  and  firmly  differentiated.  .  .  .  We  find 
"The  Crier  by  Xight  "and  "  TheRidingto  Lithend  " — especi- 
ally the  former — the  most  darkl}'  and  magically  impressive  of 
all  the  plays.  .  .  .  An  image  in  the  former  positively  makes 
you  jmnp  as  Donne  makes  you  jump  with  his  imagery.  .  .  . 
But  perhaps  his  most  striking  achievement  is  the  way  he  can 
make  these  shapes  of  an  intensely  brooding  .  .  .  imagination 
speak  out  in  taut,  muscular,  even  gruffly  vivid  language.  He 
has  avoided,  and  very  properly  avoided,  the  tenuous  chantings, 
efTeminate  imagery,  and  listless  monochrome  of  the  Celtic  dram.i. 
Mr.  Bottomley's  plays,  in  fact,  are  peculiar  and  esoteric,  but 
they  undoubtedly  achieve  a  strong  success  in  their  own 
character. 

The  Athenceinn. 

Mr.  Gordon  Hottomley  is  one  of  the  few  writers  of  poetical 
plays  whom  it  is  necessary  to  take  very  seriously  :  his  blemishes 

219 


SOME     PRESS     OPINIONS 

are  minor  and  few  in  number;  his  poetical  qualities  very  much 
outweijj^h  his  defects.  He  is  at  his  best  in  expressing-  subtle 
states  of  mind,  and  in  formulating-  g-eneralizations.  His  real 
distinction  lies  in  his  dramatic  power.  His  characters  have 
solidity  and  life  .  .  .  the)'  are  not  mere  symbols,  but  human 
beings.  His  plays  are  marked  by  the  economy  of  construction 
of  stag-e  plaj's.  It  is  significant  to  note  that  Mr.  Bottomley's 
pieces  are  excellent  in  proportion  as  they  are  actable. 

The  Saturday  Westminster  Gazette . 

Of  their  kind,  Mr.  Bottomley's  plays  are  remarkably  good. 
They  have  atmosphere  and  action ;  they  are  exquisitely 
wroug-ht ;  they  are  moving-  and  dramatic.  They  will  surely  be 
among  the  most  delightful  discoveries  of  future  generations  ; 
and  if  by  the  beg-inning  of  the  twent}--first  centurj'  our  successors 
have  contrived  to  establish  a  national  or  folk  theatre,  it  is  fairly 
safe  to  prophesy  that  three  at  least  of  them  will  find  a  place  in 
its  repertory. 

The  Observer. 

Since  the  issue  of  "The  Crier  by  Night  "  in  1902,  Mr.  Bottom- 
ley  has  worked  with  a  sincerity  and  devotion  which  are  more 
commendable  than  the  more  frequent  essays  of  less  conscientious 
artists.  We  remember  one  considerable  and  beautifull}'  pro- 
duced bookof  miscellaneous  verse,  "  The  Gate  of  Smaragdus," 
and  liiere  have  been  other  plays  issued  semi-privately,  until  the 
publication  of  "  King-  Lear's  Wife  "  gave  him  a  wider  public, 
and  reminded  younger  readers  of  his  very  definite  and  dig-nified 
talent.  .  .  .  If  as  a  tour  de  force ^  the  latter  is  the  greatest,  we 
still  prefer,  for  sheer  poetic  beauty,  for  propriety  of  phrase  and 
for  directness  of  action,  the  earlier  "  Riding  to  Lithend."  Hall- 
gerd  is  an  exceptionally  fine  creation,  and  she  is  given  to  speak 
passages  of  rare  force  and  beauty.  This  play,  too,  has  a  fierce 
dramatic  quality. 

Mr.  R.  Ellis  Roberts  in  The  Daily  News. 

Mr.  Bottomley's  plays  have  all  one  merit  without  which 
poetical  drama  is  a  thing  indefensible.  There  is  always  in  them 
a  definite  iiote  of  necessity.  .  .  .  Not  only  does  Mr.  Bottomley 
choose  subjects  which  make  his  decision  to  write  in  verse  seem 
natural  and  right,  he  writes  blank  verse  of  a  dignity  and  worth 
which  responds  at  once  to  the  needs  of  natural,  and  the  con- 
vention of  poetic,  speech.  His  poetry  is  in  the  full  English 
tradition;  he  enjoys  his  vocabulary  with  that  careful,  inventive 
jo)-  which  is  the  privilege  of  all  who  are  sensitive  to  the  individual 

220 


SOME     PRESS     OPINIONS 

word.  He  can  use  rhetoric;  but  he  rarely  allows  himself  to  be 
drawn  away  into  men?  hectic  luxury  of  lantruaj^e.  The  best  of 
his  plays  is',  I  lliink,  "  The  Ridiiij,-^  to  I.itlieiid,"  a  reiiderinj^  of 
the  old  life  of  Iceland,  which  really  represents  for  us  the 
passionate,  hasty  life  of  the  old  Sag-as,  while  it  is  free  from 
the  pedantry  which  spoils  so  many  efforts  to  reproduce  Scandi- 
navian heroics.  Hallg-erd  is  a  ijenuinc  piece  of  dramatic 
creation.  "Midsummer  Eve,"  with  its  quiet,  wiiul-bknvii  pathos, 
is  equally  notable;  and  the  quality  of  its  verse  shows  Mr. 
Bottomley's  talent  at  its  highest  and  simplest. 

The  Actor. 

In  these  plays,  the  public  is  reminded  of  Mr.  Gordon  Bottom- 
ley's  almost  unique  power,  as  among  his  contemporaries,  of 
presenting  the  sinister,  the  grim,  the  tragic,  or  the  merely 
weird,  in  a  poetic  garment  of  power  and  beauty  .  .  .  in  dramatic 
force  and  verse  charm. 

The  Journal  of  Commerce^  Chicag-o,  U.S.A. 

These  plays  are  put  into  a  format  and  style  of  book  that 
honour  the  contents,  and  when  you  know  the  contents  of  this 
remarkable  dramatic  poetry  that  is  praise  indeed.  They  hold 
you  strangely.  .  .  .  The  dialogue  is  skilfully  modulated,  it  is  a 
veritable  song-speech,  illuminated  by  luminous  pauses,  by  the 
speaking  silences  that  can  invest,  if  rightly  used,  the  static  with- 
so  much  more  dramatic  feeling  than  the  more  obviously 
emotional  action.  The  plays  are  impressive  even  in  the  reading 
of  them,  then  how  much  more  effective  they  would  be  if  acted 
and  declaimed — but  in  a  manner  worthy  of  their  high  art. 


221 


LONDON  :   CHARLES  WHITTINGHA.M  AND  GRIGGS  (hKINTERS),  LTD. 
CHISWICK  FKESS,  TOOKS  COURT,  CHANCERY  LANE. 


/: 


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